Timing
by Sahkess
Summary: Set later season 1. Just some old-fashioned Dean hurt/comfort, with a large side order of Sammy angst. I'm cruel. Warnings for language, some graphic content. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

_Timing_

Summary: Just some old-fashioned Dean hurt/comfort, a side order of Sammy angst.

Warnings: language, some graphic content.

Set later Season 1, so any potential spoilers up through then.

A/N: Not sure where this came from, but here it is! I guess I just like knocking Dean down and having Sam come pick him up. I started this some time ago and have only just resumed it so I hope it flows well enough. How I've missed SPN fic…between class and life these stories just keep going on the back burner, but in the wake of canceled classes and potential hurricanes here I am again!

Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, or the show, or the concept of things within the show, or the show's tendency to kick these boys in the keester…and so on.

* * *

Sam was pissed.

As far as older brothers go, Dean was pretty awesome. He'd taken care of Sam his entire life, was always there offering any kind of support when he needed it, always had his back, and even after not being with him for so long, had picked up the older brother role without a hitch in his step. Especially now, with visions and demons and hunting for their father, Dean was there to say and do the right thing when it was needed. But sometimes…well, sometimes Dean was a dick.

For all the times his brother had gone home with random women, or ditched him to hang out at a bar, or went to grab food and came back hours late after getting lost in god knows what, it never got any easier. Or less annoying. And after years of not having any of that, it appeared the time apart had not changed his brother in the slightest.

Twenty minutes, he'd said. Twenty minutes to pick up some godawful grub for dinner. And Sam didn't even care how bad the food was, he was _hungry_. He was even willing to grab it himself, but _no_, Sam's not allowed to drive the car unless Dean's friggen unconscious or bleeding out in the backseat. Blasphemous to let Sam drive the _baby_.

What a pain in the ass.

Twenty minutes had passed. Another twenty. And another. At this point Sam was livid, pacing the room with his phone in his hand repeatedly pressing down on #2, dialing Dean over and over again.

Another twenty. _Friggen bitch, I am so kicking your ass when you get back_.

Another twenty.

_Okay, this is weird. I usually get a text or something at this point…_

Another twenty.

_Shit. This isn't good, is it_.

Another twenty.

After being in silence for so long, the ping of the phone call startled him, echoing throughout the room like the last bell toll for an execution.

Fumbling fingers managed to open it and he brought it to his ear.

"…S'my?"

Sam knew that voice. The voice he hated to hear, dreaded to hear. That voice that meant Dean was hurt. Badly.

Crap.


	2. Chapter 2

See chapter 1 for spoilers, warnings, disclaimer.

* * *

He sank, folding into himself as his legs crumbled and his back slid down the wall, phone tumbling from his wilting hands.

_Stay awake, just a little longer. Awake, come on, awake. Sam's coming. Sammy…_

_Sammy's coming. _

_Please, Sammy, come soon._

An eternity passed. Another eternity followed. Each second drawn out to a lifetime, each breath huffed in and out of pale lips lasting millennia.

Murmurs in the distance. He couldn't pay them any mind, had to focus. _Sammy. Sam's coming. Stay awake_. A shape flickered from the other side of the room. _Don't look at it, wait for Sammy_. The dark shape grew in size, drifting towards him. He blinked and was greeted with a new sight. Rough blue mounds. _More like blue trees, tall little buggers_. The trees folded in front of him, revealing their green leaves that had blurred into a single shape—_complete with stripes, that's kinda weird_—and finally revealing their prize at the top: a face. A familiar face. Complete with a mop of brown hair that just barely covered those hazel-green eyes that Dean knew would be filled with worry, trying to lock on his.

_Sammy._

Right now, Dean loved that face. He'd choose it over any other site in the world—that face that meant things might be alright.

He felt a caress on his cheek, a warm breath of air in front of him. Another murmur, one he couldn't quite pick up. He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. A slight shift as the hand pulled him forward, and the world tilted. It was all he could do to keep himself from slipping away. He focused instead on the hand, the contact, feeling its warmth spread through to his battered body. God, he was cold, and at the moment it felt like without that contact he would have frozen over.

Feeling the strain in his chest, Dean huffed in another small breath. And let it out, trying to give it what voice he could, offer some kind of reassurance to his brother.

"—'my."

The murmuring continued, though now he could make out the current of worry within it. _Focus, just a little more_.

"—okay. It's okay, man, I've got you. Stay with me, alright?"

Dean swiveled his head up, ignoring the tilt of his surroundings as he did so. Offered a crooked smile. Felt the coppery tinge of blood on his lips, his tongue.

"Here, S'my. 'Ere."

He felt the hands move again, offering him support as gray started to fill his vision. Felt strong, familiar hands grip him tight, pulling him close and lifting him into the air. _Hate flying, why we flying Sammy?_

He couldn't hold his head up any longer. He let it loll against the solid wall of his brother's chest, locking his scattered focus onto the steady, grounding beat of his brother's heart. It became his world.

He felt the world breathe in and out around him, keeping him whole, keeping him focused.

Time slowed. Or sped up, he wasn't sure which. Maybe it stopped altogether, for all he knew. He was laying on hard leather, firm to the touch and filled with the familiar smell, the sense of home. His baby.

The contact was further away now, but still there, just above him. Felt warm hands cup his cheeks, lifting his face to the air.

"—pen your eyes, c'mon, Dean. I'm gonna drive us outta here, but you need to open your eyes first."

Eyes. Open his eyes. When had they closed? He let them fall open, mere slits of windows that opened to the gray haze of the world.

It was a dream world, everything sliding in and out of the shadows to coalesce into bizarre pictures of life. Seeing clear pictures seemed to be out of the question, so he focused on sensations instead. He could feel his car beneath him, could feel Sam driving next to him. He could hear the rumble of his baby and the constant stream of reassurances coming from his brother.

He could feel the pain in his chest from each breath he took.

He could feel the blood still oozing from his body, taking a little more of his strength with it. God, blood wasn't supposed to that, wasn't supposed to flow out of wounds for that long.

He could feel the world start to slip away again, and tried to cement himself once more into it.

"Hey. Hey, you with me, man? Come on, Dean, gimme something here."

He tried to say something, he really did. He knew how worried his brother was, knew Sam needed something, anything to make this situation a little better. Sam was still new to the game, still getting back into the rhythm after his years in the normal life. He didn't deserve to have to go through insanity like this. He shouldn't have to know what it's like to drive with someone dying in the seat next to him.

Dying…

He was dying, wasn't he.

Dammit.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter has been modified a bit from my first post of it, to any returning viewers! Nothing major, I just added in a Faith spoiler for a bit more description.

* * *

Sam glanced back from the road to his brother again, watching as Dean fought valiantly against his body's will to slip into unconsciousness. He saw his brother's eyes sink a little lower, and pushed even more on the gas, forcing the pedal nearly to the floor. He had stolen a car to get to the warehouse, some crappy model he didn't care about, and had barely felt a twinge of conscience taking it. Now they were back in the Impala, a fact that Sam knew might bother Dean since he was bleeding on the upholstery, but he knew he couldn't just leave it there, and he hoped the car could offer some measure of comfort to Dean. Right now his brother was curled up on his side, head resting next to Sam's thigh and arm draped over his chest, still trying to keep in blood that seemed to never stop seeping out of the gashes torn across his chest and side. He was as pale as fresh snow and about as cold as it too, skin clammy to the touch as he slowly shut down from shock. Sam could hear each strained breath, hear them getting slower and further apart.

Sam had been in bad situations before with his family. He'd had to patch up both his father and Dean, needed stitches done by his brother's steady hands, taken Dean to the emergency room, and had needed a few trips to the emergency room or hospital himself because of hunt-related injuries and a couple of ordinary soccer snafus.

But to experience something like this, to have his brother so still and so small next to him…it was back to when he'd had his heart fried by his own weapon in that watery basement. Dean had been barely alive then, and Sam had lost him for a few seconds after, right as the paramedics came.

Sam had had the paramedics on that scene in five minutes, and they had taken this out of his hands. Dean had come to, he'd been able to hold his hand and recognize him and then the emergency team had lifted him up and away with promises to do their best. Dean had been able to crack jokes later, still trying to cheer up his brother, and Sam had had that unyielding drive to save him.

But there were no doctors here, no one to tell him what to do. Now, he had to be in control and make the right call, had to drive his brother the agonizing twenty minutes to the hospital, watching his brother fade out faster than he could stop it and completely helpless to do anything but will the car to move just a little faster.

Dean coughed next to him, small flecks of blood coating his lips as he grew even paler. He groaned, curling into himself. Sam took a hand from the wheel to rest upon his brother's shoulder, trying to offer some kind of support. He could feel his brother tremble a bit beneath him, and saw him open his mouth to try to speak.

"Nnn…"

"I know, man, I know it hurts, I'm sorry. We're almost there, okay? Just stay awake a little while longer."

"…Mhmm…"

"There you go, keep your eyes open. Just a little longer, okay Dean?"

Sam turned his attention back to the road, slowing as he entered the busier section of town, closer to the hospital. Just a few more minutes and they'd be there, just a little while longer…

He looked down again at his brother. His big invincible brother, looking so small next to him. Looking so fragile.

It scared the crap out of Sam.

Two minutes to the hospital. He couldn't believe the town they were staying in had nothing but a 9 to 5 doctor's office. After this trip, having to drive into the next down just to get help, he knew next time he'd be adamant about choosing motels in towns with at least an ER from now on. There just had to be a next time.

One minute to the hospital. He looked down at his brother again, hand still on his shoulder.

Dean wasn't breathing.


	4. Chapter 4

The car nearly slammed into the hospital's front doors, climbing the curb and skidding to a stop. It was barely in park before Sam was out, shouting for help and running over to the other side to grab his brother.

The few nurses standing outside stared in shock for just a moment, trying to figure out how a black muscle car had suddenly appeared on the hospital's doorstep and trying to process the site of a very large, very frantic man shouting at them, but then snapped into fluid action, two running inside to grab a gurney while the others ran forward to assess the situation. They allowed Sam to pull his brother out of the car and onto the gurney and then took over, forcing Sam back so they could take a look.

"He's not breathing, he just stopped…we were almost here and he just…oh god, he's dead…just…just do something!" Sam ran his fingers through his hair, feeling his brother's blood catch as he did so. He ran forward with the nurses to stand close to Dean, who was completely motionless on the gurney.

He learned forward to grasp his brother's hand, trying to will him to come back, but was stopped by the nurses as they pushed the gurney forward through the doors. Another man gently pushed him back as he tried to follow them down the hall. Sam barely processed the fact that he was there, still forcing himself forward, until the man spoke.

"I'm sorry sir, hospital staff only."

_Hospital staff only?! What the hell do I care! Dean's there!_

"I have to go, that's my brother on the gurney, he's not breathing, I have to check on him—"

"I'm very sorry, sir, but it's hospital protocol. As soon as someone comes out with his status I can let you know, but for now you have to stay here."

_Like hell I do_.

Sam took a step back, looking the nurse straight in the eye. "Alright." As the nurse twisted on his heel to head back to his desk, Sam took off like a rocket, flying through the double doors marked 'DO NOT ENTER' and turning to follow where he had last seen his brother go, ignoring the protesting shouts from the other staff members.

Room after room greeted him, most of them empty or with a few workers in them. The fifth room on the right made him skid to a stop.

Déjà vu flashed in front of his eyes: the site of paramedics leaning over his brother, checking his vitals and preparing paddles. In an instant he was back outside that house, dead rawhead unceremoniously shoved under a sheet in the corner of the basement, crying kids next to him, and a motionless brother on the ground in front of him with an emergency team preparing to resuscitate. There, they had pulled Sam back and turned him away and he hadn't seen the shocks go through his brother's body into his heart, offering artificial life, willing it to beat on its own.

Here, he saw it. Saw his brother arch off of the bed as the paddles were pushed down onto his chest. Saw the unnatural curve of his body as a few hundred volts of electricity were purposefully passed through him. Heard the horrifying sound of a flatline, its endless scream a telltale sign of death. Saw them push air into pliant, motionless lungs.

He stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to move. Unable to breathe. That flatline was his brother's heart. His _heart_, again, stopped. Stopped. Dead.

He barely registered as someone grabbed his arms, forcing him back. He didn't notice as he was pulled down the hall into an empty room by two nurses and a doctor. He didn't listen as they reprimanded him for running down here, telling him what a danger it was and that he needed to let them work. He didn't see or hear anything but his brother's motionless form and that flatline.

The flatline that kept echoing.

He couldn't tell if it was in his mind, or still coming from down the hall.


	5. Chapter 5

"Clear!"

Dean was launched from his peaceful oblivion into earth-shattering awareness in an instant.

"Arrrghh! Ah…"

He felt himself arch off the bed and immediately moved to curl into himself, trying to halt the pain that seemed to grow worse with each millisecond that passed. Hands held him down and pressed him back into the bed. Unfamiliar hands, and an unfamiliar place, his muddled mind processed. The knee-jerk impulse to fight, get away, attack, attack, attack kicked in and he jerked his body around, trying to dislodge the unseen aggressors, but each movement he made only caused more pain to course through him.

"Lemme…go…ahhh…"

Foreign voices spoke out to him, but he couldn't register them over the screaming in his ears. Every nerve struck out with a vengeance, twisting and turning in his gut, his arms, his legs, his head. Fiery pokers glanced over and through his skin, burning.

It was like he was back in the basement, a hundred thousand volts of pure agony streaming through his body, finding pathways in blood and bone to make their way to his heart. Only this time there seemed to be no path or ending point; the pain was content to rage throughout his system like an angry bull in a sea of red.

"Nnnnn…"

Strength spent and willpower enough only to keep himself conscious, Dean sagged against the unknown holds, panting. He kept his eyes closed, no energy to open them, and let the agony wash over him, powerless against it.

Finally a voice broke through the fire, loud and firm and clear. "Sir! It's alright, I know it hurts but you need to stay still."

He whimpered. He knew how weak he sounded, but right now it was all he could do not to sob. "Please…stop…"

"I'm sorry, I know it hurts. We're giving you something now."

"Where…" Each breath cost so much to take, and each slight shift in his body intensified the fire tenfold until every inch of him was burning alive.

"You're at the hospital. We're taking care of you."

Hospital? No, he shouldn't be here. He was…what was he doing? What happened?

He had just gone out to get food…oh. The warehouse. The thugs. Blow after blow raining down on him. Trying to hold in his own blood. Calling Sammy. The pain…god, the pain.

Sam!

Sam wasn't here. He would've given an indication if he was here, some girly hand-holding moment or something. And if he wasn't here, Dean couldn't keep an eye on him.

Twenty two years of protective instincts kicked in instantly as he tried to reach out for his brother. Unfortunately, his body wasn't up to the task.

"Dammit, heart rate's skyrocketing. Sir? You need to try to calm down. What's his name?"

"Brother said it was Dean."

"Sss…wh…." Dean panted, unable to get the words out, and unable to move enough to check on his brother. He felt the world spin around him, and heard that incessant beeping get faster and faster as he panicked.

"Dean? It's alright. You're safe. You need to calm down; your heart's beating too fast. Come on, Dean, just take deep breaths, breathe nice and slow now."

Breathe. Yeah right, might as well ask him to through a lasso around the moon right now. He couldn't breathe over the fire in his chest, and he couldn't breathe without knowing where Sam was! He had to get up, had to find him. Had to check on him, make sure he was alright.

"Smm…" he huffed, "M'brother, Sam, pl's…"

"You're brother brought you in. He's in the waiting area."

_He's okay…_ Dean slumped back against the gurney, finally giving up his resistance once and for all. Sam was okay. It was alright. Anything else didn't matter.

He felt, rather than heard, the nurses and doctors around him, covering him in wires and IVs and injecting and feeling and checking and poking and prodding, shouting orders to each other over his head. He didn't care anymore. He was so tired, and as he felt the rush of drugs enter his worn-out system, he let himself slip back down, not so far down, but just a bit. Just for a moment.


	6. Chapter 6

_We were able to resuscitate him, but he's very unstable. We wanted to get an emergency CT in to assess the damage, but because of his condition the doctor has decided on emergency exploratory surgery, so they're prepping him now. I'll come back when there's more news._

_He's alive?_

_Yes, he's alive._

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in the chair. Definitely not long, his back didn't ache yet. They always make the most uncomfortable chairs for hospitals, bastards. And that lighting…why would they put the most uncomfortable lights in a place like this? Friggen neon bright things, stinging everybody's eyes. He'd need glasses by the end of the night. Glasses and a chiropractor's appointment.

He should go get coffee. People get coffee when they're in a waiting room. Or they read crappy newspapers and magazines. Go figure, years of people going to hospitals to wait for news on their loved ones, to check themselves in or wait for updates or whatever, and society hasn't come up with anything better than magazines and crappy coffee. It was funny, coffee always had that same sour taste no matter what hospital or emergency room it came from. Maybe they all ordered their coffee from the same company. Figures they would all go in on something cheap and bitter, liquid piss in a cup.

Yeah, he should do that. Go grab a coffee and a magazine. Hunker back down, wait for more news on Dean.

He could feel the disjointed thoughts running through his head, small pointless observations in an attempt to distract himself from the gravity of the situation, but his mind kept drifting back.

_I'll come back when there's more news._

_He's alive?_

Dean was alive. For now, he was alive.

But Sam still couldn't breathe.

* * *

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you need to move your car or we'll have to tow it."

He was numb, usually sharp mind dulled down to basic instincts of breathing, blinking. He looked up at the sound of another person's voice. It felt as though he was living in slow motion, everything around him out of focus.

He felt himself nod, felt himself slowly stand and fish the keys out of his pocket. He didn't remember getting into the car and moving it, but he must have, because the next thing he knew he was sitting in it in the hospital parking lot. After not being in the car for years, he was still getting used to the feel of it again, the heavy muscle of it around him. The driver's seat was even stranger, not like Dean let him drive the car often, maybe half a dozen times before Stanford and about the same in the past few months.

The Impala was still familiar though; even years away couldn't flush out the feel of a car he'd been in his entire life. This was one of the few constants in his life, one consistent point to go home to when everything else around him was ever moving, ever changing. This, Dad, and Dean.

He turned to the side, taking in the sight of the dark stains on the passenger's side of the bench seat, extending onto the floor. Blood. His brother's blood, still pouring out of him after god knows how long. Bleeding out in his baby, his home, with his family sitting next to him. All his comforts around him as he slipped away.

Sam knew he should try to clean it up before it set. Dean was going to be pissed when he saw the mess. _Dean…_

Sam put his head down, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel of his brother's favorite girl, and cried.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I don't have any medical expertise, and although I've done a little drabbling online for this, most of my 'medical knowledge' comes from a combination of Grey's Anatomy and Scrubs. Try to suspend a little disbelief here for a bit, and if anything seems too off, of course feel free to let me know. To any medical-savvy readers, I'm sorry for any mental pain associated with reading my mumbo jumbo for the next few chapters.

A/N 2: This scene actually takes place before the nurse's talk with Sam in the previous chapter, but I wanted to give Dean a quick break so it is posted here instead. It is longer than the earlier chapters and would probably be even longer if I didn't feel the need to be evil and give another cliffhanger...sorry! I can't resist.

A/N 3: I've made a few changes to Chapter 3, nothing too major and no alteration of storyline. Just wanted to let you know!

* * *

"…may need to open him up. At least three ribs broken, probably more, and we need to see what kind of damage they did. Kidneys are tender, and I can't tell on his stomach because of the level of bruising but we need to check for any lacerations or ruptures. Portable CT open yet?"

Dean felt awareness creep into him this time, rather than the sharp swing back into it. He felt the throb in his head, chest, and stomach, but it seemed far-off now, faded. His entire world felt dreamlike, as though he were swimming through a fog of people and places without any care or desire to stop and look around.

"Alright, let's bring him in for prep."

"Hang on, he's waking up. Dean?"

"Nn…" His mouth could barely open, forced closed by thousands of pounds on his lips. The same weight covered his entire body, rendering him trapped, frozen. It was a concept that panicked him, but he was too tired and too numb to have much concern.

_Hospital. I'm in the hospital. Bad thing, huh_.

He tried again, pulled up strength from deep within himself to open his mouth again. He wanted to say something, _anything_, but his body betrayed him and he fell silent.

God, he was so tired.

He felt the strangers hustle and bustle around him, working proficiently but steadily. He heard mumbled voices calling out over his head to each other, maybe to him, but he couldn't find the urge to listen in.

He was content to drift for a moment. In the back of his mind he knew it wasn't a good idea, knew he shouldn't let himself fall down too far, but it was a fleeting thought cast away a little further with each second that he coasted through the waking world.

Until, of course, someone had to ruin it. A man appeared in his eyesight, shooting blinding rays straight into his brain with what the small logical part of him realized was probably a penlight. It was enough to break past the fog around him. He squirmed, feeling his wounds give a small ache of protest, sedated by the drugs coursing through his system and shock keeping a firm hold on him.

"Dean? You with us?"

"Whhh…nnn…"

He was surprised to hear a small noise, coming from him no less. It wasn't words, but it was a start.

"Talk to him, see if you can get him to say anything about what happened. I'm going to let the surgeon know we're getting ready for the CT and to be on standby."

The man left. Dean couldn't even remember what he'd looked like, but he remembered what he'd said. _Surgeon_. Surgeons meant surgery. That meant this was bad.

He felt like a child, but he wanted his father. Wanted so badly for his father and brother to be here and take care of him, reassure him. Through the haze of drugs and pain, he was sure that undercurrent of emotion he felt was fear.

A woman turned towards him. She was pretty and plain, hair pulled back into a tight bun and frown and laughter lines etched upon her face. She gave him a small smile.

"Dean? It's all right, sweetie. You're in the hospital, you've been hurt pretty badly but we're taking care of you."

Dean felt his eyes start to close and abruptly forced him open. He needed…had to stay awake…he thought so, it was important.

"Can you speak for me?"

Speak. She wanted him to speak.

"…Sssgn..." _Not exactly words, there, Dean. Let's try this again._ "…Surrg…jun." _Close enough_.

"Your doctor is going to talk to the surgeon. You may have some internal injuries, but we can't tell yet. They're bringing in the portable CT to check, and they're going to fix what they can. I know this is hard, but can you tell me what hurts?"

_Everything._

"Mm…stmach…side…nd…should'r…"

His shoulder. Left shoulder. Yeah. Hurt like a bitch. He remembered slamming it into the wall, but compared to everything else it shouldn't have been that bad. The more he focused on it, though, the worse the pain was, scraping its way through the cocoon of drugs to settle in his bones and inch by inch revved up in magnitude until he felt himself gasp.

"Hey, it's alright. What is it?"

He scrunched his eyes, the sweet coating of painkillers becoming seemingly ineffective as his body was once again set on fire. "…Nnn…ah." He threw his head back, panting to the ceiling.

"Dean? You still with us? Shit, heart rate's up again. Dean? You need to breathe, sweetie."

She could see the pain return to him swiftly, muscles tensing and head rolling back as he tried to fight back against it. She heard the swish of a door and turned to see the doctor enter, surgeon in tow.

"Update, Marie?"

She turned to one of her coworkers. "Keep an eye on him, talk to him, and try to calm him down." She followed the doctor back into the hall, pausing for a last look at the man lying on the gurney as the team rushed around him.

As the doors closed behind them, the doctor let out a huff of frustration. "Goddamn CT's being used, we can't grab it for another 15 and it's too risky to put him in the main one."

The surgeon, a handsome man in his mid thirties but one of the best when it came to dealing with blunt trauma injuries, turned to them both. "There's nothing we can do about that now, we just have to hope he makes it that long. If not, my team's ready for exploratory surgery. Room 1 is prepped and ready to go. What's his status?"

"Still in shock, we're trying our best to get him stabilized but it's slow going. His B.P. is still too low and his heart rate's too high, and between that and the pain meds he's pretty out of it. He's got more severe pain in his shoulder, I think it's a lacerated or ruptured spleen."

"Makes sense, with the amount of bruising on his chest and abdomen, there might be more than just that. Has he coughed up any more blood?"

"No. He's got cuts on his lips and his nose is definitely broken, the blood we saw on him when they brought him in may have been from that. Or it might be that there isn't enough hemorrhaging to induce vomiting."

"Let's hope it's the former. He say anything about what happened?"

"No. The second he mentioned his shoulder his heart rate started climbing again. He's in pretty severe distress, we're trying to get him calmed down now—"

"Hey! Could use some help in here!"

* * *

Whoops, I was supposed to have him going into surgery at this point…my bad! I hope everyone's enjoying reading, more soon.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I just wanted to thank everyone for reading and reviewing! I didn't expect a little drabble in my head to turn out into an actual tale, but I'm glad it has. Hope everyone's enjoying!

* * *

"Dean! You need to calm down. Shit, he's bleeding again, grab some more packing for his chest. Dean, stop, you're going to hurt yourself."

He couldn't stop. Couldn't, he had to fight, had to get the fire out of his body. It was burning him, god, burning him alive, just like Mom. He had to get it out of him.

He thrashed, feeling the warm pulse of his own blood as his side and chest opened up again, blood flowing out to the wrong side of his body. He knew that was bad, knew he'd already lost enough, he needed to stop and let them work to put the blood back in him, but he couldn't, because the blood was on fire too, coating his chest and his insides and searing him alive.

"Hey! Could use some help in here!"

The gathering outside the room sprang into action without a moment's hesitation. The nurse, Marie jumped to the front of the scene, taking in her patient's bloody torso as he squirmed on the gurney, trying to pull himself away from the other nurses and clearly in agony. As much as it pained her to see him in such distressed, she was unsurprised at the sudden downturn; Dean's recognition of the pain had likely made it manifest so much worse.

The doctor followed closely behind, noting his rapidly deteriorating vital signs.

"Dammit, he's tachycardic. Push Diltiazem, let's get him down before he hits A-fib. Marie? You've talked to him, try to get him to stop moving around, he's already lost too much blood."

Marie lined herself up in Dean's eyesight, looking down at him as he winced and writhed in pain. Before she could say anything, though, Dean gagged, face losing all trace of color as he began to cough.

"Crap! Turn him over, quick!"

The team swiftly grabbed him, twisting him on his side as gently as they could even though they knew the undesirable pressure it was putting on his ribs. Dean curled inward and scrunched his eyes shut. The fire in his chest was burning through his throat now, and he coughed and hacked, tasting the copper on his tongue. He opened his eyes to see bright red flecks coat the sheet of the gurney and realized startlingly that it was coming from him. He gagged again, feeling more of the fire force its way out as he continued to spit out rivulets of blood.

"Son of a bitch."

Even as he continued to cough, Dean noticed his own punch line, thinking with a quick pass, _damn straight_. He sagged against the gurney, energy spent, and let the fire wash over him, nearly whimpering in pain.

"Charles, we can't wait for the CT. Head down to Room 1 and let your team know, we'll bring him down in a minute and you can take it from there. Jack, the brother said he's AB negative so order 5 units, we don't know how much he'll need for this."

The surgeon and a nurse nodded their assent and quickly exited, leaving Dean to the others. Marie leaned over him again, putting a hand on his back and noticing how his entire body continued to shake.

"It's alright, Dean, I know it hurts. Just try to breathe slowly, we'll take it from here, alright?"

He nodded, eyes still closed, trying to block out the world.

"Marie, how much have you assessed?"

"We know he has contusions to his kidneys, at least six external lacerations consistent with knife wounds, multiple broken ribs, and multiple broken fingers. His right wrist is either sprained or broken. There doesn't appear to be any spinal injuries."

"Alright. Judging by his pupil response he's got a mild concussion so putting him under is going to be risky, but we don't really have a choice. We'll just have to trust the anesthesiologist knows what he's doing. Did the brother say if he's allergic to any medications?"

"We didn't have time to ask. When we take him in I'll go out and give him an update."

"Nnn…no…"

"Dean? What is it?"

He coughed again, still on his side as they hadn't tried moving him back, and swiveled his head as best he could to face the nurse. "Nno surgg…ery…pl's…"

Marie gave a sympathetic sigh as she looked at her patient. It was incredible he could even talk right now considering a only short time ago he had been nearly dead, and now his only words were to object to something he had to undergo. He must've been so terrified...

"I'm sorry, sweetie, but we have to. We think you're bleeding internally, we have to fix you up. It'll be alright, just keep breathing nice and steady for me, okay?"

He tried to protest, but nothing else came out. God, he was so exhausted, and did nothing as the nurses continued to monitor him, fixing his IVs and Marie keeping her hand on his back for support.

"Alright, turn him back and let's head out. Marie, when we hand him over, go talk to the brother. Keep it simple though. I don't want to get the kid's hopes up, this isn't going to be easy."

She nodded and as they turned Dean back and began to bring him down the hall, she kept her eyes glued to her patient, trying to figure out how in the world she was going to get both boys through this.

* * *

So that was a little more with Dean, cue Sammy angst, coming up next!


	9. Chapter 9

He didn't remember getting out of the car and returning to the waiting room, but he had. He didn't remember filling out the medical form, letting them know a more stripped down version of Dean's medical history—minus the heart attack from the rawhead hunt and black dog bite from his teenage years and a slew of other mishaps he wasn't allowed to write about, but he had. He didn't remember getting coffee, but there was the cup, sitting now cold between his hands.

He did remember feeling the knots slowly etch their way into his spine from his prone position, the chair hard and unforgiving on his back. Just another downside to being his size, he supposed. It didn't matter. He'd live in the friggen chair, set up shop and a plasma TV and camp out if it meant it would help Dean.

Sam could barely process anything other than the simple facts. Bits of conversations from earlier kept flashing through his head, disjointed images of doctors and nurses walking by him in a blur, a few stopping for short updates, some offering him coffee. He was grateful they hadn't given him too much grief for his earlier intrusion.

He guessed it was because they felt sorry for him. Maybe they thought Dean wasn't going to make it. They wouldn't give him a thorough description of his status, just _he's in surgery_ and _doing all we can_. They did tell him he had internal bleeding and they were working to repair everything they could. _Update soon_.

_Update soon_. He hated that phrase. You can't tell a man his brother's got internal bleeding and leave it at that.

Bastards.

At least he could process the anger, then. That was a good thing, a helpful thing to focus on.

Maybe then he could stop thinking about the images playing in his mind. His goddamn mind that could never shut up, the endless cascade of information and thoughts and emotions and visions. The ever-thinking Sasquatch, Dean never let up about that. When he was younger he channeled it into school, priding himself in his ability to juggle his work and still be of use to his family on hunts, loathsome as the research detail was. Then he went to college, excelling in his studies once again as he threw himself so desperately into them. Lately it had been all about hunting for their father and going research on the next fugly Dean was so eager to dispatch. His supposed his brain did come in handy in those respects.

Now, though…he hated it. He couldn't shut the damn thing down, couldn't find the plug or the switch to turn it off, or the escape hatch to get the hell out of there. No, instead, he could do nothing but see the flashes of his worst nightmare, playing behind his eyes like one of his visions. Dean on a silver table, cold, a sheet draped over him. Doctors offering condolences in their proud, disjointed voices, not really giving a shit because they've been conditioned to feel nothing. A few sympathetic pats on the back. Requests for an autopsy, maybe. Making arrangements to take his brother's empty shell out of there because he was taking up space in their OR.

Calling Dad and leaving him yet another message, maybe one the son of a bitch would actually answer. Calling Bobby, and Pastor Jim, and a few others. Maybe Cassie too, and Missouri.

Arranging a funeral pyre. Because that's how Dean would want to go, he supposed. He'd get his hunter's funeral. And Sam would do it, he'd set up the wood and the gasoline and lay his brother down on it, and clutch his brother's amulet tight in his fist as he'd light the match and watch the most important thing in his life go up in flames, ending the same way it began.

And suddenly Sam couldn't breathe. And he jumped out of the chair and rushed into the bathroom and into the nearest stall, and hurled for all he was worth.

* * *

Dean's blood was dried and cold on his hands.

He had to get it off.

There were rusty dried splotches on his shirt, blending with the green to make for a sickly brown color.

He had to get it off.

The next nurse that passed through, he stopped. He hesitated a moment, unsure of what to say.

"Hey, d'you think I could…um…my place is too far away from here and I don't have any clean shirts with me and I don't want to leave, I'm waiting on news…could I maybe…um…"

Her eyes flicked down to his chest, taking in the site of his shirt. _Not his, but it looks like it's been there a while_. She was a little surprised he hadn't bothered to change earlier, but she knew what hospitals did to some people, especially the ones waiting on updates. She saw how distorted time became for them, hours passing by in an instant or an eternity and stopping completely when a doctor entered the waiting area. She'd seen people camp out in patients' rooms for days if allowed, not eating or sleeping or cleaning themselves up because they were waiting for a bit of good news, any positive sign from their loved ones. As one of the nurses who had been on shift for a while already, she knew this was the man who had carried in his brother a few hours ago, and figured he would be one of those people. The least she could do was offer a bit of a helping hand. She looked up again into his pain-filled eyes, and felt her own heart melt a bit.

"Of course, I'm sure one of the male nurses has an extra pair of scrubs. I'll be right back."

* * *

The water was icy hold on his skin. Too cold, he couldn't handle the cold, had to warm it up. He twisted too far in the other direction and watched as it turned his hands a bright pink and scalded him. It felt better, though. Warmth was better.

Dean's skin had been so cold…

He scrubbed his hands until they felt raw, then kept scrubbing. He pushed through his fingers, up his arms, unable to quite get the blood out though the water had long ago erased any trace of it.

Finally, when he noticed his hands start to bleed of their own accord instead of mocking him with Dean's, he stopped. He splashed more water on his face and quickly removed his shirt, exchanging it for the scrubs.

He paused then, just staring into the mirror at his haggard face, eyes bloodshot from tears and exhaustion. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since he'd received that call…

And Sam quickly exited the bathroom, trying to will his thoughts of the call and all that had preceded and followed it to stay in there with Dean's blood in the sink.

* * *

Sorry there isn't much action in this chapter, I decided to give Dean a little break in favor of some Sammy angst. Dean's back in business for the next one though! Hm...should I put him back together yet?

Hope you're enjoying!


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I just wanted to say beforehand, this section is from the surgeon's point of view. I tried to get Dean in this chapter but he apparently wanted to stay unconscious…I'm sorry! Stubborn Winchester. He should be coming back up in one of the next few though, which should be posted soon since I'm about to go through SPN withdrawals due to the lack of a new episode this week and will most likely be on SPN fanfic overload as a result…

* * *

"Alright, let's get him to recovery and keep him closely monitored for any signs of a relapse. Well done, everyone."

"Mark? The patient's brother is still in the waiting room. Would you like me to update him?"

The surgeon, Mark, allowed himself a heavy sigh. A six hour surgery with a patient that had some of the worst vitals he had ever had to deal with, who had coded twice on the table, had made for one hell of a late night. He glanced at the clock. _Make that an early morning_. He sighed again.

"No, it's alright. I've got it. Thank you."

He twisted his arms back, working out the kinks in his shoulders. That was something they never clued you in on in med school, how friggen sore you could get with your arms in someone's chest cavity for hours.

He leaned forward to the sink, stripping off his bloodstained gloves, mask, cap, and gown and tossing them into the disposal next to it. The sight of blood never bothered him—wouldn't have been a surgeon if it did—but to see someone coughing it up was a sight he wasn't sure he could get used to. Blood belonged on the inside of a person's body, and his job was to make sure it stayed there.

He let the water flow over his hands, scrubbing them clean once again, and let his thoughts turn to the patient's brother and what he could say to the man. That was one thing they did stress in med school, how important it was to deal with people properly. In a world where medicine was filled with more lawsuits and red tape than actual healing, every word and expression and movement had to be made with care to avoid getting the backlash. The typical phrases to say to the patients and their loved ones, taught by the professors and chorused by the students, echoed in his head: _I'll have an update soon_; _you need to think about your options_; _we just have to wait and see_; _we'll do everything we can_; _I can make them as comfortable as possible_. Offering slight smiles and a hand on the shoulder, but never too much, never for too long to run the risk of offering false hope. Never a promise or a guarantee, detachment, professional demeanor. The end result was protection of their patients and themselves. They could become the perfect doctors, intelligent, proficient, and cold. He might be young, but he had plenty of practice at perfecting the character.

But this case was different; it was more difficult to distance himself from the family. The patient was so young, younger than he was, with serious injuries and nowhere near out of the woods, and a brother who was likely sitting terrified in the waiting room. As a younger brother, Mark knew how strong that bond was, how important it was and how much it hurt when something got in the way of it. These two were obviously close and he could only imagine what his patient's brother must be feeling. For crying out loud, the guy had _carried_ his older sibling bloody to the doors of the hospital, broken protocol to sprint down the hall and see him again, and according to Marie had not left the place since then, waiting on news.

How the hell do you confront someone who's that devoted?

Mark looked down to see the water still rushing over his skin, slowly filling the basin beneath his hands. He sighed once again and turned off the tap, drying his hands off and running his fingers through his hair as he turned to face the man's family.

* * *

He found the patient's brother still in the waiting room, looking even more exhausted and disheveled than expected as he was confronted by an officer, no doubt looking for details on how the patient had received his injuries. Mark knew the stress that put on the family members, and thought it more prudent for the man to know about his brother first.

"Excuse me? Are you Mr. Bloom's brother?"

The man immediately whirled around, looking with wide eyes at the surgeon before him. "Yeah, it's Sam. Are you his doctor? Is he alright?"

"Sir, we need to—"

Sam turned on his heel to face the cop again. "Just wait, just for a second. Please, Dean, is he alright? No one's told me anything, I've been here all night, just, please." He twisted to face Mark, eyes brimming with emotions, concern and fear the most prominent among them.

Mark took in the sight before him. A grown man probably six inches taller than him, falling apart over a night of devastation. He took a breath and braced himself.

"I'm Mark, Mr. Bloom's—Dean's—surgeon. He's out of surgery now and we've taken him to recovery. He'll be transferred to the ICU soon. Why don't you come with me, and we can discuss this further?"

* * *

A/N: Just want to finish this one up by saying my bit about doctors being cold is relevant to the story, and not my personal opinion; there is absolutely no offense intended here. I have nothing but respect for the medical profession, and all the incredible work they do. Particularly when I can use them to fix up the boys after I break them…after all, CW might be angry if I didn't return them at least somewhat intact


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I couldn't help myself and just had to post again today; Dean needed to get back into this story. Apologies for not getting more Dean in here, this boy is an obstinate little one when it comes to appearing in the scenes. More soon, of course, enjoy!

* * *

Sam followed the surgeon down the hall to a private room. He noted with detachment how young the guy was. This man had had his brother's life in his hands and was probably still in his thirties.

Mark gestured a seat to Sam, who politely refused. "I've been sitting in a seat for six hours, I'm good, thank you. Dean?"

Mark smirked; the man clearly did not want to waste time on pleasantries. "I'll get right to the point then; your brother is alive, but he's not out of the woods yet. Between the blood loss and shock, and the potential complications that can arise from having emergency surgery, we need to monitor him very closely for a while. Our biggest concerns are for a relapse into his unstable condition, and the possibility of infection. Your brother's risk for infection is very high considering the nature of his external wounds, but we'll try our best to keep ahead of it. He's on a ventilator for now, and since his kidneys have been heavily bruised we may have to put him on dialysis."

Mark paused then, noticing how Sam's head seemed to hang lower and lower with each word he heard. He had closed his eyes, lips tightly pinched together.

"Mr. Bloom—"

"Please, call me Sam."

"Okay, Sam. I know this sounds bad, but you should know your brother is actually a lucky man. He's alive right now, and that's what matters. We're going to do our best to keep it that way."

Sam nodded, trying to keep it together. Dean's life wasn't supposed to be in the balance here. He was supposed to be alright. He was always alright.

"Okay. Keep going, what else?"

"Alright, well, most of the blood loss came from the external wounds, and considering how many he had it was not nearly as severe as it could have been. The laceration to his spleen was fairly moderate, but we were able to repair it and as long as he doesn't strain himself it should heal fully. The bruising on his kidneys is…"

Sam let the surgeon continue, soaking in each detail about his broken brother, cataloging it away into his never ending file system in his mind. As the list grew longer and more impressive, he felt the burden of torment in his chest grow heavier and heavier. What he wanted, in that instant, was just to see his brother. To know he was alive, to know that his heart monitor wasn't showing a flatline, to know he wasn't lying under a white sheet on a cold table somewhere.

* * *

Sam returned to the waiting room, thanking Mark for cluing him in on everything and quickly taking care of the cops and their probing questions. It was bizarre, since for once he didn't have to lie to them as to what happened; he truly didn't know. Usually when Dean ended up in the ER or hospital, Sam or Dad would be ready with their oxymoronic bona fide b.s. story about a fall, or an animal attack, or an avalanche (only once, when they were hunting in Colorado), or something fitting to their situation. This time, though…Sam couldn't be sure what the hell happened. They had mentioned knife wounds. Was it people, like the Benders maybe? Or just something that left what looked like knife wounds?

He'd have to ask Dean when he woke up. _When_, not if. Definitely when.

He leaned back in the seat, hard and unforgiving on his ass and back once again. They wouldn't let him see Dean, not until he was out of recovery and into the ICU at least, and he didn't know how long that would be.

More time passed. Probably hours once again, since Sam was able to watch the passing of family members and patients in and out of the waiting room, his frozen frame the only constant as the minutes ticked by.

Sam was contemplating how difficult it would be to sneak by the nurses on staff and hunt down the recovery room when he spotted Marie, the nurse he had spoken to earlier. He quickly left the rigid seat behind and stopped her as she walked towards him.

"What is it? How's Dean?"

"His condition is still stable for now. He hasn't regained consciousness yet but they've ascertained that the anesthesia has worn off, so he's just under sedation for the pain. "We'll be moving him into the ICU shortly—"

"Can I see him?"

Marie sighed. She knew that was going to be his next question, and didn't like the answer she had to give him. "I'm sorry, but the ICU keeps strict visiting hours for most of the patients, and they're over right now. You'll be able to see him in about four hours. Why don't you go home, get a little rest, and come back then?"

"Please, I—it's been forever, I just…I just need to see him. Just for a second, please…"

Marie looked at him. This tall, handsome adult, reduced to childlike proportions over the hurt of a family member. She saw so many people come in, begging to see their loved ones, and each time, she'd had to refuse, hospital protocol. Detachment, what they taught the staff when they came in, was key to handling the job.

But this boy…he looked so lost, so broken. And she had been with his brother, seen the fear in his eyes. She couldn't just leave either of them hanging without any further reassurances. She sighed to herself and prayed silently that she wouldn't get caught for this.

"Tell you what. When we move him I'll come back and get you. Just three minutes though, alright? I could get in some serious trouble for this."

He smiled down at her, the faintest trace of tears pooling in his eyes. "Thank you."

He watched her turn tail and head back through the hall, and took up his post in the chair once more. She came just as promised a few minutes later, and with a quiet tilt of her head he slowly rose to follow.

Time slowed as they walked through the halls. Sam didn't know what to expect. He wanted so ardently to see him, but was afraid of what seeing him would entail. The situation was just surreal; Dean wasn't supposed to go through things like this. He was supposed to be invincible. Having to see him in a hospital bed again…Sam didn't know how well he'd handle it.

They stopped a few floors up, shortly before another large set of doors. She turned to him, a soft look on her face.

"He's been heavily sedated, so he'll be unconscious. He is on a ventilator, but it's only temporary, from the surgery. We're hoping to take him off in an hour or so as his condition improves. He was a little shaky during surgery, but he's stable now. Remember, three minutes and then I have to kick you out of here."

Sam nodded and headed through the doors with her, to a room on the right she indicated to.

The person lying on the bed looked so small. Tubes and wires crisscrossed his chest, and the ventilator hummed quietly next to him, pushing air through the adjoining tube into his pliant lungs. Both hands were tightly wrapped, small braces covering several of his fingers and a cast over his right wrist. Further down, below the sheet, there was an outline of a large wrapping, no doubt covering the scars he would have from his surgery. In the hospital light, a colorful array of bruises stood out in sharp relief against his still-pale face.

Sam felt his heart rip into pieces at the sight.

_Dean…_


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Can't seem to stop myself...oh well! Happy thanksgiving all!

* * *

Sam was frozen. Rooted to his spot next to his brother, unable to move, barely able to breathe. The laundry list of Dean's injuries flew through his head at lightening speed, reminding him of all the reasons why his brother was now in the position before him.

_Lacerated spleen. Five broken ribs, two cracked. Severe contusions to his kidneys. Mild concussion. Hairline fracture on his nose. Six gashes across his chest and right side consistent with knife wounds. Moderate blood loss. Moderate, like bleeding out of your chest for an hour could be moderate. Scrapes, bumps, bruises._

_Five broken fingers, one sprained wrist. Signs of defensive wounds. He fought back, hard. Sprained ankle, fractured kneecap._

_Critical condition. High risk of infection. Heavy sedation despite the risk of coma with a head injury to avoid the risk of relapse into shock._

Lucky to be alive.

Sam inched forward, started to reach out to touch his brother's hand but stopped himself; there wasn't any way he could grasp Dean's hand without hurting him. He was afraid, anyway, afraid that with a simple touch he could break Dean even more. His brother's condition was so fragile…_he_ was so fragile.

Marie stepped forward and laid her hand softly on Sam's shoulder.

"Talk to him for a sec. I'm sure it will help if he knew you were here right now."

"Can he even hear me?"

"I'm sure he can."

Sam leaned in towards Dean, careful of the ventilator tube. He tried not to think of it snaking into his brother's mouth and down his throat, forcing air into him. He spoke, voice breaking a bit as he addressed him.

"Hey, Dean. It's okay, alright? You got a little banged up there, but you're gonna be alright." He felt Marie tense as footsteps echoed down the hall, announcing the end of Sam's time in the ICU. "I, uh, I gotta go, but I'll be back in a little while, so, uh, so don't worry.

"No checking out on me, man, got it?"

Reluctantly, Sam tore his eyes away from his brother and followed Marie back out into the hall. She rested her hand on his shoulder again, noting the subtle shaking indicating his mental and physical exhaustion.

"Sweetie, why don't you go home for a little while? I know it's hard to leave, but it'll help. Take a shower, grab some food, and try to get some sleep. You can come back later and stay for the day if you want to. My shift doesn't end for a while, so I'll keep an eye on Dean. He's in good hands, I promise."

Sam looked back at her. After spending time back in the world of evil and monsters, simple human compassion took him by surprise. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. Thank you."

"Of course."

He returned to the waiting room, grabbing his bloodstained clothes and jacket, and headed back out to the car for the long trek back to the motel. He would check out there, grab their things, and find a closer one here, money be damned.

The drive was going to be a lonely one.

* * *

Dean drifted.

Or maybe he floated. He couldn't be sure.

He did know that he wasn't awake. It's kind of hard to float—or drift—as a corporeal being, after all. He wasn't sure where he was, or how he had gotten there. He couldn't see, couldn't move himself, couldn't hear or smell anything. He just…drifted, through a sea of black oblivion.

He hoped he wasn't dead. For all his nonchalant talk about knowing he couldn't possibly live to a ripe old age with his lifestyle—like he would want to grow old anyway—and being at terms with his mortality, in truth, he wasn't ready to go yet. He still had work to do, still had his family to take care of.

He tried to remember what happened to him, why he seemed to be stuck in his non-world. Disjointed flashes of a night flew back to him. Driving. Stopping, suddenly. Ambushed. Fists, kicks, knives. Pain. Falling. His phone. Hiding. Sam. The car. Pain. Blood. His brother, scared, rambling. White lights. Pain. People. Strangers.

Pain. There was no pain here. He guessed, wherever his current situation, that that was probably a good thing. He knew eventually he would have to figure out a way out of this, but for now, he let himself remain there.

Time passed. At least he thought he did, but he couldn't be sure. He felt a dull ache seep into his bones and twisted away from it, going further back to his blissful pain-free void. He felt himself slipping, sliding down the slope into a place where he felt even less himself, where his senses were dulled impossibly further, and the small part of his mind that told him to stay away from it grew quieter.

Just as he approached what he knew was the edge of his little world, he felt a shift in the nothingness. A familiar presence entered the empty space around him. It felt…safe, like being at home in a motel with Dad and Sam, beers on the table and guns lain out on the bed for cleaning, some stupid show blaring out of the TV.

He forced himself to focus on it, and felt the presence grow to envelop him. And then, unbelievably, Dean was positive he heard a voice break through. It was faint, but unmistakable.

"No checking out on me, man, got it?"

_Sammy_.

_Okay, Sammy, you got it._

With that, Dean felt himself drift out of the dark and empty black into the calmer world of gray, and stopped drifting, stopped floating, to let himself just sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam felt the leather of the seat beneath him, cool from sitting out in the cold night. The smooth caress of the steering wheel under his fingertips. The rumble of the Impala's engine before him, soft and deadly, filling the car with a steady beat as the pair wound down the road.

He tried not to look at the blood on the seat next to him.

It had dried, staining the upholstery, its neglect an act of great evil in Dean's book. But it would be long gone before Dean got to sit in his baby again; he would make sure of that.

His mind started to wander, calculating the possibilities as to when Dean would even be able to reunite with his car again, how long he would be in the hospital, how much aftercare he would need, if he caught an infection…

He stopped himself there. _Keep it simple. One moment at a time, nothing more_. He knew that was the only way for him to survive. If he let his mind wander back to those morbid thoughts, he would crumble into so many indistinguishable pieces it would make Humpty Dumpty look like a child's six piece puzzle. So he kept it simple, no details, just the generalities for the time being. Go back to motel. Pick up, check out. Drive back to town. Get new motel. Sit until the ICU hours open, because he sure as hell wasn't going to allow himself to sleep, not since he knew what nightmares would await him. Go to be with Dean.

The trip back to the motel was remarkably shorter than he remembered. He supposed it was easier when you weren't trying to stop your brother from flatlining in the passenger's seat.

The room was the same as he'd left it. His side neat, Dean's not so much. That was the way they did things, though, even before he'd left for college. Dean liked to make his presence known, whether it was by strutting into a bar with his patented swagger, belting out Metallica lyrics in the car, or, in this case, scattering as much as he could around the motel room. Sam suspected the socks he kept finding tucked under his pillow were more for annoyance tactics than anything else, though. He was okay with that. He simply returned them to Dean after wiping down the toilet with them.

It didn't take him long to gather up their belongings, mostly clothes and a few weapons, Dad's journal, Dean's journal, Sam's books. They hadn't been on a case when they arrived, so there were no case notes to worry about, no story boards to take down and keep in careful order. He was anxious to leave, to get closer to Dean again. If something happened and he was too far away…

He cut himself short again. Nothing was going to happen. He would get a new motel, sit and wait, see Dean, and that would be that. _Keep it simple_.

He slung the two duffels over his shoulder and headed back out to the Impala, pulling the back door open and swinging the duffels in.

And then stopping dead in his tracks. Right there, on the floor behind the driver's side. The catalyst.

Two takeout boxes. No doubt filled with food long gone cold. Dean's task for the night, before the night went so horrendously wrong.

Sam leaned in, grabbed the boxes, and opened the first one. Oriental chicken salad.

His dinner.

The boxes went flying to the ground, scattering around the parking lot. Sam sank to the ground shortly after.

That was it. The one piece he had tried so hard to rein in the entire night. It had been a nearly impossible task to try to keep himself together as his brother fought for his life, so he had pushed it down, far enough away that it couldn't add to the emotions threatening to tear him apart. But here, without his brother around, he let it consume him.

The guilt. The goddamn guilt over his part in this entire mess. It spread like wildfire, coating every inch of him inside and out.

Dean had been hurt and he wasn't there to help. Dean had been left alone and bleeding for over an hour and a half while Sam was in the motel bitching about food.

If Dean had died...if his brother _died_ over this…

Right there, in the middle of the parking lot to the nameless, dingy hotel, Sam surrendered and let himself fall apart.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Hi all! This chapter is longer than the others because I feel bad for what is probably going to happen over the next two weeks. My university likes to pile everything on at the very end of the semesters to see how many of their students they can force to complete insanity. Due to the wrap-up of classes and finals looming in the very _very_ close distance, I am afraid I will be too busy cramming for my exams and finishing up these last projects to do much, if any updating, a fact I am very sad for and completely understand if the virtual tomatoes are thrown with gusto. That being said, I will try my best to at least get one chapter done over the next few weeks, but I make no guarantees. As soon as I am finished, though (and perhaps after I manage to grab more than a three hour nap) I will be back to regular, if not faster, updates.

Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Dean wasn't awake when Sam was let in a few hours later. That was to be expected though, and Sam fervently ignored the twist in his gut.

The ventilator was gone, a very promising sign that things were looking up for the elder Winchester. He was still pale as all hell, still covered head to toe in clean white bandages that mirrored the stark white of his skin, but the steady rise and fall of his chest and even beat of the monitor helped reassure Sam that his brother was alive.

The room was vacant otherwise. The Winchesters were at least fortunate in that regard; they tended to receive single rooms when they ended up in the hospital, better for them if they needed to discuss hunting details. Sam scoffed at that thought, that the only form of luck his family was bound to have was isolation in a hospital room.

He stood over his brother for a moment, hand reaching out to gently rest on Dean's shoulder. He received no response but thought, somehow, that it could help. Dean wasn't big on chick flick moments, and even less so for comfort when he was hurt, but Sam needed this more than Dean did and he knew that if his brother was conscious he wouldn't mind.

He took up residence in the seat beside his brother's bed. Big surprise, the damn thing was just as uncomfortable as the one in the waiting room. But, Dean was out like a light and Sam had no where else to go, no where else he wanted to go to. The guilt that had crushed him so brutally last night was still simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over again, and Sam was determined to not fall apart over it, but he needed to talk to Dean. He needed to apologize and beg for forgiveness for his stupidity, for not being there to help him. He needed to hear Dean's voice again, cracking a stupid joke over it and granting Sam the absolution he so desperately craved.

Until then, well, Sam was going to get really friendly with that chair.

* * *

"Hi Sam."

Sam started up, so focused on the steady tones of the heart monitor that he hadn't even noticed someone else had entered the room. He turned to find the same nurse who had spoken to him last night.

"Hi, uh, Marie, right?"

She nodded, a soft smile on her face. "Yup. Just wanted to check in."

Sam watched as she approached his brother, a sharp eye on his vital signs as she pulled down the sheet and ran her hand lightly over the bandage covering his side and chest. She gently pulled off the outer cover to examine the wound, and Sam cursed internally as he saw the long scar now adorning his brother's chest, filled with angry black stitches. Other marks caught his eye, ones he hadn't remembered to see until now, the slices from god knows what over his brother's ribs and stomach, irregular, some deep with stitches, others left to heal on their own. Soon to be more scars that marred his brother's body, a testament to the life he was forced into and took without a second thought, no matter the pain, no matter the losses. His gut lurched and he looked away in anger.

Marie glanced back at him. She kept her voice quiet, as if afraid to push. "He's looking good, Sam. No sign of infection, that's really good. And these will heal, in time. We've just got to keep a close eye on him for a while."

Sam sighed, weight resting heavily upon him again. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Any idea when he's waking up?"

"Well, he's out of the anesthesia but we've still got him on the good stuff. Odds are he'll be out until we dial them back, but we want to wait for a little while to let his body heal. There's no real telling when he'll be awake."

"Okay." Sam nodded, more to himself than to the nurse beside him. "Okay."

"The doctor might be in later to check up on him. Give us a call if you need anything, alright?"

Sam smiled at her, sincerely touched by her sweet manner and care. "Thank you. I really appreciate all of this."

"Of course. Take care, Sam, I'll be back soon."

* * *

The time passed with no change. Sam's ass was sore once again, and he could feel the familiar headache that comes with worrying one's self for hours start to echo behind his eyes. He paid it no mind.

He glanced down at his watch, surprised to see that once again night was beginning to fall. He hadn't slept or eaten in over a day, but he knew that he would grant himself the luxury of neither. Not a change in the world of him leaving his brother's bedside, not at least until Dean woke up and called him Samantha.

The doctor had assured him that Dean was doing as well as could be expected, but to Sam that wasn't good enough. He was terrified that he would step out of the room for just an instant and suddenly the alarms for a code would go off, or that he would nod off and wake up to find a body bag in the bed.

His once again morbid thoughts that started to flood his mind were abruptly dammed off when Marie came in again. He was starting to wonder how long her shift was; she'd been in and out all day, checking up on Dean and, he suspected, on him as well. He was very grateful for her, though; she was easy to talk to and very up front with him, offering compassion but truthful responses to his questions as well. He guessed she was good at reading him because she had managed to keep him from freaking out all day, a task he knew couldn't be easy since he could barely do it himself.

"Hey there."

"Hi, Marie."

She did her usual checkup, examining Dean's wounds and vitals, injecting a syringe into his IV port. She turned to Sam again, concern on her face.

"Have you eaten anything?"

"Uh, no, not yet. I'll grab something soon—"

"Yeah, I'm sure you will." She spoke with sarcasm, but not entirely unkindly; her eyes still had that soft compassion in them. "You know, nothing's going to happen if you step out for a second. We've got a close eye on Dean, he'll be alright. You don't need to wear yourself out with worry here."

He nodded, eyes focused on his brother. She'd hit the nail on the head. "I know, I just…I can't leave. This whole thing wouldn't have happened if I'd been around, and I wasn't, and now I just—I need to be here."

He surprised himself at the gravity, the truth behind those words. He hadn't expected to be so honest, but something about Marie's presence just made him open up. He supposed it was because she was the one he had seen the most since coming in here, and without Dean to talk to, he'd turned to her for the assurances he needed.

He hoped she wouldn't read all the text behind those statements.

She sighed, and leaned up against the wall to face Sam. "I know how terrifying it can be. You think that if you leave, even for an instant, somehow he'll be gone. But look, I've been with Dean since you brought him in. He fights, that's for sure. He fights like hell, and he's going to keep doing that. He's not going anywhere."

Sam smiled. The woman should be a carpenter for how well she was doing with those nails. "You're right, but I'm not going anywhere either. Not now."

She took him in for a moment, an odd look on her face. Then she smiled. "Alright. You want to go that way, I won't argue." And, without another word, she turned on her heel and left.

A look of puzzlement crossed Sam's face as he watched her leave. _Well, that was abrupt_. Before he could decide what to think, though, Marie returned, a surprising site to see. In one hand she held a plate with a sandwich; in the other, a pillow. She stopped Sam before he could get a word in.

"If you don't eat something I'm going to have to admit you, too. My shift is almost over and I really don't want to have to do that, so before you start complaining just think about that. Now chow down."

Sam was stunned speechless, and took the plate from her without a word. He held it idly in his hands for a moment, until she gave him the look, and he quickly broke off a piece of the sandwich, chewing and swallowing while she looked on.

"Good. Now, I want you to take this. I've been in that chair before, and I know that it's hell on the back. Here." She handed him the pillow.

Sam grabbed that in silence as well, he stuttered for a moment, before settling on a simple "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He set the plate on the table before him looked down at his hands for a moment. "So, um, as far as those visiting hours for the ICU…"

"Don't worry about that. We're allowed to make exceptions for some patients. And since I figured I've got about as much of a chance of getting you out of this room as I do pushing a boulder up Mount Everest, I spoke to the doc earlier and you can stay the night if you'd like, no one will bother you about it. You should try to get some sleep, though, Sam."

He looked up, nothing but pure admiration and gratitude for the woman in front of him who seemed to have their entire situation handled perfectly. "I—I don't know what to say—"

She smiled at him. "You don't need to say anything. I've been around stuff like this for a while, I know the drill. Just keep an eye on Dean for me, okay? He's a real cutie, I'd like to see him back on his feet soon."

Sam let out a small laugh. "Don't let him hear you say that, his head would grow so big you'd need to do surgery on _that_ just to get it back down to normal size."

She gave him another smile and turned to leave. "Good night, Sam."

Sam relaxed into the chair, pillow cushioning the sore muscles of his back, and leaned his head back, letting out a breath of air as he took up residence for the rest of the night.

* * *

He woke with a start, head jerking up from its cramped position on the back of the seat to snap forward. For a moment he was completely clueless, then took in the sight of his brother on the bed in front of him and relaxed back down with a sigh. Every muscle in his body protested the abuse it had been subjected to, from his cricked neck to his sore knees, but years of growing like a weed to gigantor heights had left Sam a master of the muscle ache and he steadfastly ignored it.

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that he had slept for over six hours, not a single nurse disturbing his slumber. He supposed he had Marie to thank for that and made a mental note to buy her a small house when all this was over.

He let out a deep breath, stretching his arms up above him.

And froze when he saw that Dean's eyes had opened.

Just slits, tiny lines opening up to reveal glazed green irises. They blinked a few times, not even trying to focus on anything around them, and fell closed again.

"Dean?"

Nothing. That was alright, though. Sam had seen what he had needed to. There was no mistaking those eyes, even drugged to the gills: Dean sure as hell was in there. His brother was still here, still alive, coming back to the world of the living.

Sam could breathe a little more freely again.

* * *

I tried to leave with no real cliffhanger. I'm not _th__at_ cruel :)


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Hi again! At last, finals are finished, batteries somewhat recharged, and I can get back to the boys and their tales. Sorry, Sam and Dean, I hoped you enjoyed your break from me, because I'm back with more whump. No worries, though, his chapter I'll ease you both back into it with something a little lighter.

A little shmoop warning too. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Goddamn beeping.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to come up with such a repetitive noise as an alert for people…well they were probably dead so Dean couldn't exactly kill them again, but he could at least salt and burn their dead asses for good measure. Seriously. Beeping for alarm clocks, microwaves, watches…ugh.

Dean was more than prepared to make a formal protest against the present culprit of today's beep, just as soon as he could remember how to open his eyes.

* * *

Sam barely dared to breathe. His brother had been moving his eyes behind closed lids for quite some time, and Sam was waiting, just waiting, for those lids to open again. He wanted to be there for when Dean woke up again.

Dean, however, seemed more than content to just torture Sam with promises of consciousness. He'd managed a sigh a few hours ago, after first opening his eyes yesterday for Sam. No words yet though, and while Sam was more than happy to see his brother on _this_ side of the veil, he still wanted to badly to hear his brother's voice again.

There it was. A flicker of Dean's eyelashes, followed by a flash of green peeking through, only to quickly close again. Sam snickered a bit despite himself. His brother, big time hunter, fighting a battle with his eyelids, and apparently losing.

* * *

Dean would have snorted in irritation if those muscles worked. _This is ridiculous. Losing a friggen battle with my eyeballs._

He felt oddly detached from his body, drifting around in a sea of what was almost pain, but distant. His thoughts were a little fuzzy too, jumping around each other in a pleasant little dance. He guessed, from the incessant beeping and sharp smell of antiseptic, that he managed to land himself in a hospital once again, which would explain his out of body experience. Morphine had a tendency to zonk him out pretty well, and tended to make him loopy. Still, he was aware enough to sense that someone was close to him, waiting on him. _Probably Sam. Hey, Sammy boy_.

He figured it was high time to stop with the floating he seemed to prefer lately to actual corporealness, so, steel resolve in his—well, not his gaze or pose, he supposed, since you need to be a part of your body to do that—whatever, he pushed and pushed until he broke through the surface, like a diver finally breaching the top of the water once again.

And abruptly sinking back down. Dammit.

* * *

Dean had managed to crack his eyes open for the second time, only to close them quickly. Sam figured he could use a bit of assurance, so he grasped his brother's forearm, lightly, and spoke softly.

"Hey, Dean, it's Sam. You waking up for me? That'd be good, it's been a while since we had a chat and I'm getting pretty bored around here. You definitely owe me for keeping my ass in this place for so long."

"Come on, dude, if you don't wake up soon I'm going to have to draw a fake mustache on you. Permanent marker, too. You know that's the rules here, told me so when we were younger. Hell, I'm still never showing my face in Brookston County again after you pulled that stunt on me."

* * *

Okay, definitely Sam in the room. And like hell if Dean was going to let himself sport a mustache just because he seemed to have forgotten the ability to function like a normal human being. Dean did not have the face for mustaches.

He forced himself to concentrate and pushed through the murky waters once again.

And whoa, consciousness was weird.

* * *

"Dean? You awake?"

Finally, on the fourth valiant effort on his brother's part, Sam was rewarded with a glazed, zonked out look as his brother managed to keep his stare open all the way. Well, halfway.

"….Mmmmm…"

"Hey, man. You back with the living?"

"S'my?"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm right here."

"Mmnmm…bep'n…sppp…"

Sam scrunched his face in confusion, eyebrows drawing together. Whatever they'd given Dean must've been pretty decent. "What? You're not making sense, dude."

"Stp th'beep."

Sam laughed, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. It would only be Dean to complain about something so trivial. A huge slice to his internal organs isn't a big deal, bones cracked and broken just another day at the office, but some annoying noise around him and he just had to let Sam know. Right now though, Sam wouldn't have had it any other way.

"Believe it or not, that's actually a good sign, Dean. It's your heart monitor. You kind of need it."

"Neh, don'."

"Yeah, you do. Don't argue with me here, you're gonna lose."

"Btttth."

"Yeah, I know I am."

Dean slouched a little further into the bed, and let his eyes drift closed again. He'd gotten up, said hi to his brother, gotten the memo out that the beeping was unacceptable—and hoped his Sasquatchy little companion could put his magical skills of annoyance to good use—and now felt perfectly justified in allowing himself to sleep again.

He had to admit, though, the hand resting lightly on his forearm, though he would never dare state it out loud, was providing the most comfort to the drugged up man in this unfamiliar place, the one thing that made him feel safe enough to let his guard down again and rest.


	16. Chapter 16

"Hey, dude, you awake this time?"

Sam was a little worried about how out of it his brother still seemed, but the doctors had assured him it was just due to the heavy sedation from painkillers. Apparently they were more concerned about taking him off of the good stuff until he had more time for his battered body to heal than his dazed state.

Dean, however, seemed to have other ideas.

"Mm…drgs…st'p em, Sammy."

"What?"

"T'ke'm'off. Don' want drugs, Sm. Fuzzy."

"Oh."

Dean might have been drugged up as all hell but he still knew how to complain.

"Dean, that's not such a good idea right now. You had pretty big surgery man, it'll hurt too much if you go off the painkillers. They're still a little worried about relapse back into shock from the pain…" Sam paused as he watched his brother's eyes glaze over even more, flickering and threatening to close. But Dean forced himself to stay awake just a little longer, desperately trying to get his point across.

"Sam, please. Don' wan…don' wanna be out'f't. Pls…Sm…" Dean felt his focus fade out again. _Damn drugs_.

Sam winced. Dean hated to be out of control, even when hurt or sick. He wasn't a fan of painkillers or cold medicine, since they had a tendency to dull his senses. It didn't matter if they were off of a case, he still preferred everything working as sharply as it could. Sam supposed it was residual training from his father, to never have his guard down in case something should happen.

Like the time fourteen-year-old Dean, out of his head with fever, barricaded the door to keep himself and Sam safe from the supposed possessed dogs the neighbors kept. Sam had alternated between feeling terrified and amused at the sight of his brother stacking chairs against the door while his father tried to talk him down from behind the window.

He sighed, knowing the right thing to do even as he hated it. He looked over to tell his brother he would talk to the doctors, but Dean was already out again.

* * *

_Alright, we're taking him down a few notches. I'm not going to sugar coat it for you, Sam, he's going to be in pain. Probably a lot of it. We'll keep a close eye on him, make sure it doesn't get to be too much. If he is having too much trouble let us know, no delay, okay?_

Dean could feel the drugs leaving his system, each minute passing giving him a new ache in his bones and a sharper string to his side, each beat of his heart spreading out to give rise to a new hurt on his body. He needed them out, though, hated being so out of it that he couldn't string along a damn conversation with his brother. He wasn't one to be so out of control of his own body. It wasn't right, especially not for him.

Besides, he should probably reacquaint himself with the waking world for more than a few minutes at a time. He needed to at least check out the nurses while he was here.

So he sat, kept his eyes closed and drifted in and out of awareness, feeling his brother close by, and let the doctors do what they would.

And the time passed.

* * *

God, he hurt. Body tampered with from the inside out, stitches on the wrong side of his skin. He would puke from how disturbing that was if he had the energy to make his throat muscles work.

He thought he would be more coherent once some of the painkillers wore off, but he was so busy trying not to whimper or scream that he couldn't get a word out anyway. He cracked his eyes open a bit to the image of Sammy leaning over his bed, nothing but puppy dog eyes and a crease of worry on his face.

"Dean? How you feeling, you alright?"

Dean tried to answer, but another wave of agony coursed through him before he could get a word out and he abruptly shut his eyes again, trying to push through the pain before it forced its way out of him.

"Dean? Should I call somebody?"

"Unnn…" Well, that was not was Dean was going for. A resounding no and some kind of follow-up reassurance, that's what he was attempting, not caveman noises.

"Maybe I should get the doc back in, I think he dialed it back too much."

_Jeez, Sam, no. I just got off that crap_.

A few deep breaths, and Dean was able to get out, "n-n-n-o. 'Ts not that…bad…jus'…gimme'sec."

"Dean, you can't even open your eyes. Just lemme get somebody, they can give you just a little more—"

"Sam. No." Feeling like a marathon runner after the race of his life, Dean managed to open his eyes and fixed them immediately on his brother. "Don't."

Sam started back a bit, surprised at the strength in his brother's voice. "Okay. Okay. Got it." He saw his brother wince again in pain and leaned forward to take his forearm again, uncaring of the slap he might receive, which with all of the braces on his brother's fingers was bound to hurt both of them. Thankfully, though, Dean didn't move to slap him or even to pull away. They both relaxed a bit more.

* * *

When Dean woke again a few hours later, the aches hadn't abated much, but enough for him to take a breath without clenching his teeth. He shifted his gaze to see his brother asleep once again on the chair next to him, hand still resting on the bed. _That kid's neck is really gonna hate him in the morning_.

He toned out the rest of the world, letting the rush of hospital noises blur in the background. His mind drifted back to the night by the warehouse. Those bastards, taking cheap shots against him. Wasn't even a fair fight.

He could smell the air from that night. It was musty, a thick cloud of dark alleyway stench permeating the place. The noise of faraway traffic echoed in his ears, the occasional clang of metal on metal as breezes flitted through the alley and shifted the old scraps there.

And the footsteps of rapidly approaching adversaries, catching him off guard, alone. Vulnerable.

"_Remember us? Time for us to take back what you took, buddy."_


	17. Chapter 17

Sam glanced on, concern marring his features. His brother had fallen asleep again, but was miles away from getting any sort of genuine rest. Sam considered waking him up but was worried too about the pain he would be in. Stubborn Dean wanted off the painkillers, but the negative ramifications of that decision were rapidly outweighing any potential benefits. He'd been in so much pain earlier that Sam hadn't even been able to ask him what had happened, a question that was burning a hole in his gut. But he didn't want to push until his brother was a little more coherent, and writhing in pain didn't seem like the best situation for an interrogation. And Dean was still so pale…

So he sat in that godawful chair, sipping coffee number one thousand, and warred with himself over rousing his brother or not, as Dean continued to toss his head in misery.

* * *

_Someone lands a punch on his nose, and he hears rather than feels it break, cartilage snapping along his face. Then the pain comes rushing in to collide with him like a freight train, making his eyes water and his head swim. But he doesn't have time to collect himself because in an instant he's on the ground, legs whipped out from beneath him. The wind's knocked right out of him, and he curls around himself as he listens to the jeers above him._

"_Where's that cocky smile now, man?"_

* * *

When Dean started to moan in pain Sam decided enough was enough. He would wake him and force a few more painkillers into his IV, protests be damned. He reached forward to gently shake his brother's shoulder, still conscious of the bruises that lined his brother's body and made it damn near impossible to touch him without hurting him.

"Hey, man, wake up."

* * *

_There's blood everywhere, and it's his. They've got him pinned now, taking shots to his ribs, his abdomen, his chest. He'd be doubled over in pain if his arms and back weren't forced against the wall._

_They're laughing, all of them. Well, except the one with the jaw he broke before someone took a low blow and kneed him in the groin, sending him tumbling down to where they could pull him up and pin him. He had managed a few good shots before that, but now he's stuck, a helpless piece of meat they're happily tearing into._

_They pause for a second, and he tries to catch his breath, a near impossible feat with the searing pain in his chest. Bastards busted his ribs._

"_This is what you get, with an attitude like that. We gotta teach you a lesson, that you can't just run into town and do what you want. We run that joint, you got it? You don't get to show us up, pretty boy_."

"_What do you say we make him a little more humble, carve this kid a new look, huh?"_

_He sees through the haze a glint of steel in the shadows. Shit._

* * *

Dean jumped awake with a start, immediately regretting it as he felt the burn flare up in his chest and side. His eyes grew wild and for a moment he panicked, unable to remember where he was, until he saw Sam and felt the grip on his shoulder go a little tighter.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, it's alright. You were dreaming, Dean, it's okay. Everything's alright, just calm down."

Dean leaned back into the pillows, breaths still coming out in harsh pants. He was so sure…he thought he'd been back in that alley. He'd felt the blows raining down on him again, each mark on his skin as it was made. Even back in the hospital, little brother by his side, he could feel them smart a little more, a ghostly memory of what had happened. He managed to swivel his gaze up to his brother, eyes locking, one pair filled with concern and the other with fear and pain.

"Yeah, yeah…ugh. This…sucks."

Sam nodded, but even with Dean awake, didn't relax his grip. "I'm getting the nurses to give you some more of the good stuff." He saw his brother start to protest and quickly cut him off. "Don't give me that crap, you need sleep, real sleep, and your body needs time to heal. So just take the damn drugs."

Dean's objections died in his battered chest. Sam was right, and he was too tired to argue.

Sam released his shoulder to push the call button next to him, knowing Marie would be around in only a moment.

"It's okay, Dean. You don't have to play Superman all the time. Nothing's going to happen to you here, I've gotcha. It's alright to let yourself just relax for a little bit."

Dean smirked. "You're such a chick," he breathed out.

"Yeah, I know. Sue me."

Marie came in quickly, a small smile settled on her face as she noted both boys were awake and not too worse for the wear. "Well, Dean, nice to see you up. How're you feeling?"

Before he could get a word in, Sam quickly interceded. "We were wondering if you could put him back on a higher dose of painkillers. He's alright, but—" Marie held up her hand to stop him. "It's no problem. Doc's got an order to give more if he needed it." She went over to the set of drawers on the right, unlocking one and withdrawing a vial and syringe. She moved over to Dean's bed and leaned over to put herself in his eyeline. "You alright, Dean?"

With a quick glance over at Sam, Dean gave his nurse a smile. He hadn't actually been able to have any kind of extended conversation with her yet, but judging by her care when she was around him and the way Sam visibly relaxed at her presence, Dean had determined she was a pretty decent woman to have around. A little older, sure, and not the kind to flirt around with as he was pretty sure he'd receive a smack up alongside the head for it, but he could very vaguely remember her face being a comfort amidst the pain and confusion of the first few hours he had spent in the hospital, and so he was grateful to her.

"Mm…yeah, m'okay. That'd be, ugh, that'd be good."

With a nod, she quickly drew up some liquid into the syringe and injected it into the IV. She kept her eyes on Dean, watching him go slack as the drugs began to work their magic. "It's a lighter dose, so you shouldn't be as out of it, but they'll probably make you sleepy. Don't fight it; rest would be good for you, it doesn't look like you've gotten much off of sedation."

"Kay."

Sleep claimed him again, the rush of drugs back into his system pulling him out of the hospital into quieter places.

Except it wasn't so quiet, wherever he was. He could hear the rush of traffic, the breeze, the footsteps from earlier all back to haunt his unconscious self. The smells crept in, the sharp stench of a dirty back alley, booze from the men around him and that indeterminable smell of danger in the air. The aches from before began to flare up again, and like that he found himself back on the ground, staring up into the faces of the bastards who were determined to rip him apart.

* * *

A/N: Definitely not where I wanted to end this one, but it's kind of a cliffy so I'm happy with it :) More soon, hopefully if Sam and Dean aren't too stubborn I'll get to where I want to be.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: *Sigh* background…my poorest suit. Currently tethering my muse down because she apparently wants to flit off, so I had to satisfy her with a bit more Dean whump. Which, of course, I don't mind at all. :D Hope you like!

A/N 2: All names here just made up, no intentional reference to any place real.

* * *

Sam was more than content to spend the rest of his night by his brother's side, but it was apparent that that wasn't going to happen. Mostly due to the cops who were currently taking up residence in the room with them.

"Would you mind giving us a minute?"

Sam sighed and followed them outside the room, the weight heavy on his shoulders.

"Look, officers, I know you want to get to the bottom of this. Believe me, I do too, but he's out right now and I don't have any information on what happened. I wasn't there."

One of the men turned to face Sam directly. He was tall, well built, and older, grey speckles among his dark hair and lines around his face suggesting a long and tough career. There was some semblance of pity in his features but it was mostly overtaken by a hardened and neutral expression, built up over the years.

"I understand that, and we know your brother has been through a lot. We're not here to push and make it worse. But it would help to know both of your whereabouts in the hours leading up to the incident, and the few days before, to give us a better picture of the background, maybe clue us in as to why exactly this happened."

The cop saw Sam's shoulders tense, an unconscious movement on his part but one that the officer knew well as a sure sign of distress or confrontation. He gave the kid the benefit of the doubt and took it as distress. "Start slow, okay? In Roxbury, the town neighboring this one, that evening."

"Okay. That evening we were, uh, at our motel, the White Maple. We'd spent most of the day there, we went out for a little bit in town."

"Where did you go?"

Sam racked his brain. It felt so long ago, a lifetime, that they had woken up that morning to a crisp sunny day, few worries on their mind and good company in each other. "We went to a diner in the morning, uh, Sally's I think it was. Headed to the library for a bit, and grabbed lunch after that, some sandwich place, I-I can't remember the name."

"That's alright. Where next?"

"We checked out the park." It had been nice, to have the two of them just relax in the sun for a bit. Rare for them, a treat. "Then at four we went back to the motel."

"And then?"

"Well, around seven Dean went out to get food, to that place, uh, The Pocket, in the middle of town." Such a stupid idea. There were closer places, or they could've ordered in, but no, Sam had to mention the lack of healthy food they'd been dining on and bug his brother for some better grub. And Dean had agreed, just trying to keep him happy. He should've gone instead. No one should have gone. They should have stayed in the motel, safe with each other, and Sam should have shut his trap and gone with the pizza call Dean suggested and then he wouldn't be here, talking to cops about his beaten brother in the next room. Should've…

"When had you checked in to the Maple?"

Oh, right. The officers, the questions that needed to be answered. "The day before." Their schedule had been empty, nowhere pressing to go and no hunts on the radar. They'd stopped just for the sake of stopping. The town was small and the rooms cheap, so both brothers had opted for a quick rest before picking up and moving on.

"And did you go anywhere in town that day?"

"Uh, yeah. We headed out to one of the bars, Brien's, I think it was called. Stayed there for a couple hours, had food and played some pool." Dean had hustled a bit there too, getting enough money to reimburse themselves for staying at the motel and add a bit more to their stash.

"Brien's? You sure about that?"

"Yeah, pretty sure. Why?"

"Just want to be certain. Were there any problems there, any issues with any of the other customers around?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so. D'you think—"

"We can't draw any conclusions. There have been a few issues there with some bar brawls, but that's to be expected with grown men and alcohol. Well, that'll be it for now. Here's my card, please give us a call when your brother is up to talking. We can't investigate much until we hear his side of the story, so anything he could offer would be helpful."

Sam nodded, taking the card and idly twisting it between his fingers. He turned to saunter back into the room, thinking back to the bar. It was quite a site to see, a grimy smoky place filled with loud company, the kind of place that Dean had melded into quite easily. San realized that he hadn't actually been around for most of Dean's pool games, and he wondered…

Any potential thoughts he could have had about that night were blown clear out of the water when the alarms around the bed began to blare, and he looked down to see Dean twisting on the bed in a hot sweat with his eyes closed, groaning between his teeth.

* * *

_He doesn't know how his arms get free, but suddenly, there they are in front of him, fingers curled into tight fists. He senses rather than sees the knife lurch forwards, and every ounce of training springs into action and he fights back._

_Technique is gone, though, he's in too much pain for finesse. Instead he is wild; he fights like a wounded animal lashing out, and he is, scrambling blindly against everything and everyone. His feet find enough purchase on the ground beneath him to hold his stances, his lunges out and back. He feels muscle and bone give underneath his hands and feet as he punches and kicks against anything that races towards him. He feels his own knuckles split at the impacts, fingers starting to twist in unnatural ways as he lands blow after blow in a frenzied attempt to retaliate, fight, fight, stay alive, push through, fight._

_He can feel the bruises on his body throbbing in time to his rapid heartbeat. The knife's managed to hit a few places, but no slice has driven home. Not yet._

_Then there's a swift kick to his knee, and he goes down hard. And before he can get back up again, there's blows to him once more, relentless._

_He can taste blood on his tongue._

"Dean? Dean! Come on, come on, man, wake up, Dean!"

His brother couldn't hear him. Couldn't hear anything over the shouts and laughs and taunts of the men around him, pushing, cutting, punching. Couldn't hear over the swish of the knife in the air, slicing through shirt and skin. He was trapped, stuck in the nightmare of that night again, replaying its story on his body and his mind, while in real time his brother, terrified, tried to free him from it.

He didn't hear the alarms screeching around him, or feel the rush of nurses enter his room. He didn't feel the touches of unfamiliar hands on him, checking for vitals, torn stitches, or the odd pressure of drugs swarming through his system once again as they tried to stabilize him.

He felt the pain, and then blissful black.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: So, a few things. First, thank you to everyone who's reading and hugs to those who have reviewed! I know I usually respond to reviews before posting each new chapter, but I wanted to get this up before festivities start. I will answer, though, but in the meantime thank you all!

A/N 2: Next, and I know this won't be liked, but in the wake of the holidays I won't be able to post for a bit. Namely due to the fact that I'm going on vacation with the family to a place with no internet. Rest assured, I will still be writing this story out, and will have more to post when I land back in modern society right after New Year's. I will try to see if I can snag internet sometime before then to post another chapter but I make no guarantees. I'm sorry! I do hope that this chapter makes up for that a little bit, I tried to leave it cliffhanger-less and in a slightly cheerier mood (and I just love drugged Dean).

Hope you like it!

* * *

"What happened to him?"

The doctor gave his frazzled inquirer another worried glance. Sam was wrecked, terror pouring out of him at the sight of his brother once again falling apart, strangers trying to keep him breathing.

Dean was out again, no movement at all this time, deep enough under to prevent any dreaming. He'd flailed around uncontrollably during his episode, unwakeable, setting off all of the monitors around him and nearly taking out the nurses before they'd managed to get a stronger sedative into him.

"Well, he managed to tear a few of his stitches and almost ripped out his IV, but we've fixed both of those. His heart rate was greatly elevated and breathing erratic...Sam, I think your brother had a panic attack. A severe one, for sure, and quite a bit more dangerous for someone in his condition."

"Panic attack. You're telling me that was a panic attack."

"Yes."

"Well then why the hell didn't he wake up when I tried to wake him? How did a friggen panic attack do that? For crying out loud, he stopped breathing!" Sam was on his feet, volume escalating with each word until he was waving his arms and shouting at the doctor. Seeing his brother freeze, back arching, no breath coming in or out of his lungs until a nurse had the sense to smack him hard on the chest, gave Sam more than enough reason to be upset.

The doctor kept his cool, a technique born of years of practice, despite the very large, very distressed man in front of him. "Like I said, for someone in his condition the ramifications of a panic attack are much more serious. Between his injuries and the medication he's very vulnerable right now."

Dean. Vulnerable. Not two words that were meant to meet in the same sentence. Sam was about to protest, let the man know he was out of his gourd and that was ridiculous, when the doctor spoke again.

"I'm guessing this had to do with his incident. It's not uncommon for patients to start reliving those moments, and since we have little idea what actually happened to him, this wasn't entirely unprecedented."

And there he was, back to that night again. Sam felt the blame settle heavily on him, sickening him with the idea that it was his fault. And here, Dean tortured again over whatever had happened…and he'd told his brother that he would be alright, that nothing could happen to him here. Sam's fault again, his failure again.

"How do we stop this from happening again?"

"We've got him back under sedation. He'll be out for a bit. When he does wake up we'll put him on antianxiety meds and keep the painkiller dosage up, but it would be best to just talk to him, get him to put it out there. We would all benefit from knowing anyway, and it'll help get some weight off his chest."

With that, the doctor departed again, leaving Sam alone with his unconscious brother and his ever darkening thoughts.

* * *

Dean was…fuzzy, he decided.

He wasn't a fan of sedatives almost as much as he wasn't a fan of painkillers. Anything that dulled him down, made him more exposed, was not on his list of things to enjoy.

But this fuzzy feeling, that was interesting. Probably a new goody given by the doctors, and he figured he would roll with it for the time being. Fuzzy was, apparently, a rather good thing.

Sam, on the other hand, with angsty face number six currently glued to his mug, was clearly unable to enjoy the fuzziness. Staring off into space, that no good faraway look in his eyes, unknown and likely angsty thoughts brimming in his head. Dean had to change that, for sure.

"Sam."

"Dean! I wasn't expecting you to be up yet. How you feeling?"

"Fuzzy."

"Huh. Okay…that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Good. Um…yeah…good. You?"

"Am I fuzzy or am I good?"

"Both."

Sam managed a laugh. "I'm okay."

Dean's face scrunched up, clearly unhappy with that response. "No. Should be fuzzy."

Choosing to ignore that, "you sound better. You in any pain?"

"Nah, 'm good."

"That's good."

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Why the angsty?"

"The what?"

"The angsty. You're upset. Upset's not fuzzy. Come back 'n be fuzzy."

"I guess the docs gave you a bit too much of that stuff. I'll ask them to dial it back, get you back on planet earth."

"Subject changer. Wh'happened?"

A sigh. "Nothing, Dean, it's okay."

"So, bad then."

"No, just…you scared me a little bit." _Dammit, Sam, don't be a baby. Unloading on your hospital bedridden brother_.

"Me?"

"It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"Sorry. 'f I scared you. 'think I scared you. Earlier. 'Sokay, Sammy."

Sam just stared. Loopy on pain and anxiolytic meds, and Dean still managed to figure out his little brother's issue and start working on fixing it. Sam wasn't sure if he wanted to smack his selfless older brother up alongside the head or hug him for it.

"Alright, Dean, thanks. Look, um, I know you're probably too out of it to care right now, but we gotta talk a little later, Dean, okay? About what happened to you, how you got beat up. Kay?"

Dean's lax face clouded over a bit, but he retained a small grin for his brother. "Yeah, Sammy, kay."

Seeing Dean's eyes start to flutter, a lull of sleep working its way around him, Sam decided to let it go for the moment and would content himself with watching his brother get some genuine, nightmare-less rest. And preferably waking up a little less zonked. "Alright, go back to sleep, you stoner. I'll be here when you wake up again."

"Kay, Sammy."

* * *

A/N: And yes, this does mean that I'll explain most, if not all, of what happened in the next chapter. And I'll work on getting Dean and Sam back in one piece again. Boys, consider that your Christmas gift. :)

Happy holidays and Merry Christmas all!


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Aaaaaaaaaaargh. Hi all. True to my own crappy luck, my computer has decided it doesn't like functioning and so not only was I unable to write over vacation, but I've lost all of my work on this story and other pieces I had started. I repeat, argh. I still have every intention of finishing, of course, but it may take a bit longer now that I have to redo the parts I had completed and have to fight for computer time (3 am writing sessions, how I've missed you). Anyway, here's the next chapter, and it's much longer than my usual ones, about 2500 words. Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Sam was always surprised by how peaceful his older brother could look in sleep. Even with a carefree attitude projected out to the world, Sam knew the burdens that Dean carried weighed heavily upon him. From age four, Dean set himself up with unreachable expectations of saving the world and everyone in it, and held the sole position of mediator and caretaker for his family. It was crushing, and Sam could see that although Dean didn't let it overwhelm him, it sure as hell took its toll, especially in those rare times where Dean would lower his walls. Yet, when Dean finally let himself rest, all of the burdens just seemed to melt away, revealing the little four year old boy so long repressed. No stress, no obligations, no well-built façade to block everyone out, just peace. Hard to believe his big brother could be so relaxed in a hospital bed.

His thoughts were interrupted by Marie's entrance. She kept quiet so as to not disturb her patient, and gave Sam a quick smile before returning to check Dean's vitals.

"He looks like he's getting better rest now, huh? That's good, it'll help him heal."

"Yeah, he hasn't had any kind of nightmare since they started him on the other meds." She nodded her agreement. "He's doing really well Sam. Give him a little more time and all the support you can, and you'll get him back in one piece."

Sam smiled. "I know I will.

* * *

"Morning, sleepyhead."

Eyes heavy with sleep greeted him.

"How you feeling?"

A few blinks. "Kinda like ass. At least I'm not flying high anymore."

Keeping his own eyes guarded, Sam asked, "How's the pain?"

Dean debated for a moment. He could still feel each frazzled nerve in his body alight with stinging pain, but it dulled enough that he could sit without screaming. He was tracking more easily too, and felt less out of it. Looked like the doctors had finally figured out a decent combo of meds for him. "Eh, you know, only hurts when I breathe. Could be worse."

"Well, that's an improvement over earlier. I like you better when you breathe, at least, even if all that comes outta your mouth is wisecracks."

"Don't be jealous just because I got the looks and the wit, bitch."

Sam laughed. "You're a jerk. Seriously, though, it's a relief to hear you actually string a whole sentence together."

Dean stared, taking in the sight of his little brother, finally with a much clearer head. Sammy looked awful, red rimmed eyes framed by dark circles, wild hair and the impressive beginnings of a beard, even as he could feel his own stubble resting upon his face. Dean had no idea how long he'd been out, but clearly it was long enough to take one hell of a toll on his sibling. He scanned his memory for pieces of the last few days, recalling his sparse moments of consciousness and the accompanying sensations. He remembered feelings, bits of conversations, and Sam's presence, always constant, always steadying. He remembered flashing back to the alley beside the warehouse, trapped in his own nightmare.

"I freaked you out a little there, huh."

Sam tried to hide the flash of hurt and fear in his eyes, but the kid knew better than to think he could hide anything from big brother. "Yeah."

"Sorry, Sammy."

"S'okay."

They fell into an easy silence, interrupted only by the even beat of the heart monitor, quietly soldiering on in the background. Sam sighed, knowing how much this next park was going to suck.

"Look, Dean, we, uh-"

"Right. We gotta go over what happened that night. I know." Dean's voice grew quiet, uneasy.

"You feel up to it?"

"Yeah. Talking's on about the same level as breathing right now, so I think I got it. So…well, what have you told the cops?"

"Nothing yet, since I wasn't sure of anything. Dean, what—I mean, one second you were heading out to get food and then the next—"

"We ended up here." Dean leaned further into the bed, wincing at the burn that flared in his chest. "It was so stupid, Sam, I was so friggen stupid."

Sam leaned forward in his chair and rested his hand on the how familiar spot on his brother's forearm, ignoring Dean's flicker or a glare at him. "Well, I'm not goin' anywhere, so start talking, man."

Dean sighed. _Here we go_. "I was driving back with the food, and I took the shortcut past that creepy old warehouse we looked at the day before."

_Zeppelin starts to stream smoothly through the speakers as he turns the next corner. Dean's pushing the speed a bit, but he's in a hurry. He'd told Sam only twenty minutes, but the damn place was packed and he's coming up on twice that time. He knows that if he takes much longer to get Sam's rabbit food to him he'll have to deal with Sammy's bitchface for the night, which is enough to ruin anyone's evening. He decides to take the cut through past the warehouse. There's an alley along the side of it, more than wide enough to accompany a car or two and bypassing several streets to bring him closer to the motel. The warehouse is a wreck, a huge and old factory storage building that's been long abandoned and falling apart. They had considered squatting in it, saving money, but Dean figured the two of them deserved a little better that. Besides, even Dean Winchester had his standards, and a residence with rats was simply out of the question. So instead they'd found a little place and he had hustled to replenish their stash. Not a bad way to spend a little down time, between the mild weather and Sam's mood actually improving since the whole daeva incident, Dean's actually enjoying himself in the little town._

_He's riding down the alley beside the warehouse, creepy little place, but he sees the lights in the distance at the end of the path. There's debris lining the sides, and he's focused on keeping his baby's paint job from any damage. Before he realizes it, there's a man darting in front of the car. He slams on the brakes and cuts the wheel, not so much space to turn but he tries it anyway. The car twists to the side, fishtailing and threatening to collide with the wall while Dean's head nearly slams into the steering wheel. Both stop before impact, and he is left with adrenaline flying through his veins as he looks up, amazed that the car is in one piece. He leans over to cut off the ignition and opens the door, pulling himself out of the car to figure out what the hell happened._

"Someone ran out in front of the car. I almost totaled the thing against the wall trying to avoid him, but I stopped before I hit him or the wall. I ran out to see if the guy was okay, or to kick his ass for running out, I'm not really sure which I wanted to do more, but…before I could get to him, somebody clocked me in the back of the head. I got back up, and found a whole shitload of 'em, little bastards, ready to go."

"Did you know them?"

"Heh. Yeah. Go figure, not even a friggen supernatural thing for once. Those douchebags from the bar, that little gang I hustled. Guess they wanted to go another round." Dean felt the memories threaten to overwhelm him again. They had been relentless, just kept hitting, long after he'd been down. He knew how to hold himself even in mismatched combat, but eight on one and unprepared…he'd been screwed from the start. Those men had been ready for him, bolstered with anger and drunken confidence, and Dean had let them get the drop on him. All the supernatural kills under his belt, all the fights he'd won, and Dean had nearly been killed by a bunch of bumbling bar thugs.

"I, uh, tried to hold my own, ya know, but I just…I screwed up, I wasn't ready for 'em. Their whole friggen group was there, eight of them. I think one of them had a bat, and another one had a shank. Lucky for me the idiot didn't know how to use it. They were all pretty hammered, not so coordinated."

_Their punches aren't aimed, but enough of them still hit their mark. The bat's gone, thank god, lost somewhere in the scuffle. It managed to crack a few of his ribs though, and he can feel every creak, every shift in his bones. They're taking turns at him, a few holding him down while the others move forward. He's writhing in pain at this point but still manages to get loose a few times, enough to pay them back with a stray punch or two._

_Then the knife comes out and he goes postal, twisting and punching and kicking like a rabid animal. There's blood on both parties, indeterminable origins as they mix together in a sick red canvas. He's down, and a kick comes so swiftly from a steel-toed boot that he's sure it's ripped his insides apart. He doesn't give up, though, just swings his legs out to trip the man and jumps back up again, ignoring the fire that threatens to consume him. He starts backing down the alley, trying to give himself a bit more room as his brain screams orders in his father's voice, know your surroundings and use them, know where to hit, when to hit, survive, fight, run when you need to._

"They said you had some knife wounds…I thought it might've been claws or something, I thought maybe you'd stumbled into a hunt." Sam was quieter than before, almost afraid to speak further. He didn't look at his brother, couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes. Dean, selfless older brother, had hustled so the two of them could get a motel room. Sam hadn't helped him; he was still iffy about the numerous illegal activities that Dean so happily employed himself with. So instead Dean had done it alone, and this was what he received for his troubles. While Sam hadn't been there, again.

"You called me. How'd you get away to do that? There was no one else around where I found you."

Dean kept quiet for another moment. He felt like a coward, but if he had stayed any longer, they would have killed him.

_He knows he doesn't have much more fight in him; a man can only lose so much blood before it knocks him on his ass. He has to get out, any semblance of courage sacrificed in favor of self preservation._

_It is blind instinct that saves him, the human drive to survive coupled with ingrained training. He isn't sure how he manages to get away, he certainly doesn't beat all of the men down. All he can tell is one moment he ducks away from the bite of the blade once again, and the next he is sprinting down the alley, jeers and fists hot on his heels._

"I just ran. I wasn't thinking, wasn't planning anything out like I should have. I should have…I shoulda thought of something. But I didn't. I just booked it, kept away from the footsteps and ran into the warehouse. The place was pretty crowded with crap, so it wasn't hard to just duck behind something. The guys followed me in, hung around for a little while, but they didn't look for long, just a few minutes and then headed back out.

"And the rest is history."

Sam examined his brother, disgust for the men responsible leaving a grimace on his face and matching Sam's own. Trying to keep the guilt out of his voice, he asked quietly, "How long were they laying into you? I got your call like two hours after you left."

"Dunno, I wasn't exactly keeping an eye on my watch. I know somewhere during all of that those bastards took my money clip, though. Didn't have my wallet on me and they didn't touch the car, so that's something to be thankful for."

"You're an ass, Dean." The words flew past Sam's lips before he could stop them, voice cracking a bit.

Dean, who hadn't held Sam's gaze for more than a moment since he started talking about it, looked up in surprise. "Well that's not a very nice thing to say to the cripple, here."

"Shut up. I can't believe you're actually talking about being thankful."

"Look, I'm not saying I got lucky here, I mean, I'm lying in a freakin' hospital bed with metal mittens on my hands and a tube up my junk. It's just a saying, okay? Relax."

Sam huffed and looked away. The room grew a bit too small for Dean then and he shifted, uncomfortable with the new silence that had settled between them. He knew something was eating at his brother, but was too tired and in too much pain to try and wriggle it out of him. As for Sam, he knew he ought to offer Dean support, encouragement, reassure him that he hadn't screwed up and it wasn't his fault, that he was just grateful he was alive and he wasn't a coward for running from that fight when he could, but the words just wouldn't come.

"Uh, Sammy, I'm pretty wiped out, mind if we finish this later?"

Grateful for an out, Sam nodded, still refusing to look his brother in the eye. "Yeah, that's fine. D'you need anything?"

"Nah, I'm just gonna crash. Go get some rest, man, you look like hell."

Sam nodded again, sure that he wouldn't be leaving his brother any time soon despite what Dean wanted but unwilling to start an argument. Dean was stubborn as all hell when it came to Sam's wellbeing and Sam had no desire to fight with him. "See you when you wake up."

With that, Sam rose out of the chair and, turning off the light beside the bed, left the room—not to leave the hospital, but just to put a bit of space between him and his brother. He knew why it had suddenly gotten so awkward between the two of them, but didn't have the heart to bring up what he wanted so badly to say. That it was his fault, that he was sorry, that he'd been so terrified for him. There were too many words to put into that tiny room.

Dean watched his little brother go, and like that, he was let alone with his thoughts. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, knowing that no sleep would come. Not with the memories bubbling behind him, and his brother's pained face in his vision.

With a sigh, he leaned to the side and pushed the button for a nurse, looking for more meds to take the edge off and allow him to slip past his nightmares and away from the world.

* * *

A/N: I realize that this might not be what readers were looking for. I do want to say that it has been my intention from the beginning to have the attack supernatural-free. The boys get beat up enough from monsters that I wanted a human incident instead. There was a hunt I was planning for a multi-chapter fic after this one, which, naturally, was on the computer that died, but I still want to pursue that when this is finished. Please, don't be angry! *cowers behind couch* More soon.


	21. Chapter 21

Dean was really starting to develop a disdain for consciousness.

It had been almost a full day since he'd told Sam what happened. He'd slept for a bit, a blissful slice of nothingness thanks to whatever drugs they were currently pumping into his system, gotten the rundown on his condition from Marie and Sam, sent Sam away since it was obvious the kid had yet to sleep or shower, had a lovely chat with the nosy cops, and was currently getting pissed off at the doctor over how long he needed to stay in the hospital. Not fun.

"Sir, you have to understand, your condition was very serious when you brother brought you in. You need to take it easy, and the best place to do that is here."

"I appreciate the concern, doc, I really do, but I'm an adult here. I know how to take care of myself and I don't need a bunch of stiff whitecoats mother henning me."

"We're not saying that you can't—"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you are. Now I don't really need your consent for this. I'm more than happy to grab myself a few AMA papers."

"What's going on?" Sam entered the room, freshly showered and shaved and ready to take up his post once more by his brother's bed. He had come prepared; with his brother more coherent at last, he had a few things, magazines and such, to try and keep the soon-to-be stir crazy man entertained.

Although, by the looks of it, he was a little too late.

The doctor turned to Sam, hoping that maybe the brother could knock some sense into his patient. He hadn't been there when Dean had first come into the hospital and wasn't present at the surgery, but he'd seen Sam at his brother's side for nearly the entire time that he'd been in charge of his patient.

"Hi, Sam. I was just informing Dean that for a proper recovery he needs to stay in the hospital for at least another week—"

"And I was informing doc here that he can shove that up his ass."

Sam sighed. He knew that this would be coming, knew how much his brother hated hospitals. Knew he would rather suffer in silence in a crummy hotel room, Sam by his side with painkillers and the TV remote, than stay vulnerable in a hospital bed. He just figured it would be a few more days before Dean was itching to leave. He still was on high doses of pain meds and anxioyltics, and while no infection had set in yet they couldn't rule that out. Not to mention the guy had dozens of stitches on his chest and side, and a few dozen more on the inside of his body.

"Doctor, could you give me a minute with him?"

"Of course. Please, just try to make him understand, he needs more time to recover."

With that, the doctor left the room.

Dean huffed in frustration. "What a pain in the ass."

Sam sighed, not looking for a fight at the moment but realizing one was probably about to spring up. "He's just trying to do what's right. And for the record, I agree with him. You need more time here."

"Aw, jesus, Sammy, come on. I'm fine, give me a coupl'a bottles of the good stuff and I'll be ready to go. This is ridiculous, being here. I feel like an invalid."

"You _are_ an invalid right now, jerk. Dunno if you noticed, but you can't even scratch your freakin' nose right now." Ignoring the glare directed his way, Sam moved to sit beside his brother. "Please, just…give it a little more time. You almost died, dude, that's not something you can just brush off."

"I'm not brushing it off—"

"Then stop being a dick and just let the doctors work, will ya?"

"Hey, watch it, bitch." The normally affectionate term was tossed out with a bit more malice this time. "I know what happened to me, genius, I was there. And I know the limitations of my own body. I can handle this, I just don't want to be handling it _here_."

"Why the hell can't you just let somebody take care of you for a minute?" This was not going the way Sam had hoped, but in the back of his mind he knew that with all of the tension between them any little argument had the potential to spark into something much bigger.

"Aw, shut up with that, man. I'm not a baby, I don't need people to take care of me."

"You just don't get it, do you."

"Get what?" Dean's voice had gone dangerously quiet. "What don't I get, Sam? Huh?"

"It's just…" Sam sighed, long and heavy. He wanted so badly to say it.

_I know you're safe here, and I need you to be safe_.

But a statement like that would never be accepted by big brother. "Please, Dean, just…please. Give it a little more time. I don't…I don't want you to get hurt again."

He looked over at Sam, seeing that even with a shower and a little rest, his brother still looked like death walking. Concern was plastered all over his face, and those damn eyes… "Fine. I'll give it another day or so." _Friggen puppy dog eyes, you ass._ "But when I want out, I want out." Sam nodded, knowing it was pointless to try his luck any further with him.

"Now come here and scratch my nose. You made the damn thing itch on me."

* * *

A/N: So this chapter is shorter and the scene is much less emotional than the others, but don't worry! The next chapter is well under way (read: will be posted soon) and includes a scene I have been itching to get out here, but didn't fit in this one. Thanks to the inspiration of a particular reviewer, I have a bit of a mean surprise in store for the two boys. They will get fixed up eventually though, as promised, but this is just too fun. Oh, I'm so mean to them. *Cheshire cat grin*

As always, a huge pile of hugs for all the reads and reviews, thank you all so much!


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: As promised, here's the next chapter nice and quick. Whoa, it's weird posting before midnight...but I couldn't resist! Ah, I must be slightly sadistic because this was so much fun to write. Angsty and angry, good times. Bad language warning for curses not present on the show, I gave Sam a pretty awful potty mouth.

A/N 2: I would like to thank **WinJennster** for providing the inspiration for these next few chapters. The first bit was planned out, but where this story goes next is all thanks to the request for a lil more Dean whump and Sammy guilt, and of course I must provide! Hope you like.

* * *

Time passed, and an edgy truce between the two persisted. Sam stayed by his brother's side as the nurses replaced Dean's metal braces on his hands with softer casts, and told him the time needed for the other casts and bandages to remain on. He complied with his brother's grumbling over his recovery time, and allowed a bit of idle chat between them. In time, though, they settled back into silence.

"So." Sam struggled to think of what to say. He could sense the discomfort between the two of them—at this point the tension was palpable enough to be cut with a knife—but didn't know how to fix it or even where to start. If he tried to pull at the seams of Dean's carefully constructed wall, he was certain to just end up at a dead end.

"Did you call Dad?" Dean hadn't expected it to come out like that, but it had been a thought nagging at the back of his mind and it finally slipped into the open.

He knew that the innocuous little statement packed a lot more punch than it appeared. Dad's recent departure, at Dean's request no less, was still a fresh wound, and any mention of their father lately had been accompanied by short, touchy conversations.

"No, I didn't." Touchy, indeed.

"Oh. Okay."

"Dean, I must've called him twenty times back after the rawhead. Between thinking you were dying and trying to figure out a way to save you, and then needing help with the hunt and—Dean, I didn't know if cutting LeGrange's ties to the reaper would set the clocks back and make you sick again, or what. I needed his help, even if you thought you didn't. He never answered, never gave me any indication that he even listened to the goddamn messages. I couldn't this time, I couldn't think that I had him to lean on."

"I'm not mad, Sam. I get it, it's okay."

The silence was once again uneasy, laden with repressed anger and sadness. Sam stared resolutely at his hands, wishing to turn back time and prevent this nightmare from ever taking place.

"I called him."

It was an utterance so quiet Sam almost missed it.

"You did? When?"

"The warehouse, before I called you. Took me a while to figure out I had to call somebody, heh. I was kind of out of it. And then, I dunno, his number just came up."

_His bloody hands scramble against the smooth plastic of the phone, struggling to retain a grip. He doesn't remember dialing a number, but he must have because there's ringing coming from the other side of the line. The screen says Dad's number. When had he called Dad's number?_

_He rests the phone on his shoulder close to his ear, trying to keep it steady. He waits, eager and anxious to hear the calm reassurances and even the gentle reprimands from his father, the ones that always come when he's hurt. His dad will come, he always does when he truly needs him._

'_This is John Winchester. I can't be reached.'_

_The phone slips from his hands to clatter on the floor_.

"He didn't pick up, did he."

"No, he didn't."

No one spoke for a few minutes, uneager to even attempt further conversation. Eventually, though, Sam broke the quiet, with a few words that came nowhere near to patching the wounds deep beneath Dean's skin. Eyes stayed down, neither brother wanting to see the pain in each other's gazes. Words kept soft.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"S'okay. Not your fault. Nobody's fault, really. It's no big deal."

"You trying to convince me or you?"

He received even more silence for a response. "Do you…do you want me to call him? I mean, I can leave a message, see if he answers."

"No." Dean still refused to lift his head. "Don't want to bother him with this anyway, it's no big deal."

"Bother him?" Sam stared at him incredulously. "Dean, he's your father, the guy _should_ care about crap like this. Unless he's even more of a selfish bastard than I figured."

"Give the guy a break, Sam—"

"No!" Sam rose out of his seat, unable and unwilling to stop the rush of anger he felt. "How the hell are you still defending him, after leaving you, after the rawhead, after everything?"

"Sam, just stop. It's no big—"

"Jesus Christ, Dean, will you stop staying that? It is a big deal, or did you forget about that little part where you nearly had more blood on the outside than the inside."

"Just, cool it, man. Dad's just, Dad, you know that. It's okay."

And that was it. Sam couldn't handle it any longer. So overwhelmed with anger and guilt that had been lurking just below the surface since this entire disaster began with those few hours, that one phone call…Sam lost it.

"Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Whoa, Sam—"

"No. You've gotta be…dammit, Dean, you've gotta be out of your goddamn mind. You almost die, almost fucking die, and you can't even take it seriously. It's not _okay_, alright, it's not fucking okay!"

"Jeez, dude, calm down a sec."

"No, screw you, man. How the hell are you so calm about all this? I mean, we fight monsters all the time, put ourselves in the worst possible positions where one wrong step and we die, and then this happens because of people? _People_, Dean, almost killed you. You can't be so calm right now, do you…d'you not even care about the fact that you almost died? Does your life mean nothing to you?! For crying out loud, you just…what the hell, Dean."

"Sam, I'm not trying to—"

"Just stop, just shut up. I can't believe you! I can't believe you would fucking let this happen to yourself." Like a slap to the face, Dean fell back, any further protestations lost behind his lips.

Sam was pacing, tearing his hands through his hair in anger and frustration, wanting so badly to take back what he was saying and fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness, for putting Dean in this mess, for not being there, for almost letting him get killed.

Instead, he turned on his heel, ready to leave, ready to run.

"Where the hell are you going?"

Sam couldn't hear the edge of panic in his brother's voice. "I can't, I can't do this…dammit, I can't be here."

With that, he stormed out.

* * *

Dean sat, stunned.

His brother left.

His brother had left him.

He was alone. Again. Abandoned, again. No one else. No one there to pick up the other line.

_I can't do this. I can't be here_.

"Can't be here with me, huh Sammy?"

Like hell. He wasn't going to just sit there. He needed his family, needed his brother. And if Sam wanted to storm out, well then, Dean just needed to go get him.

He took a quick note of the equipment around him. Reaching forward with a wince, he switched off the alarms on the monitors, and took the leads and pulse oximeter off his own body, grateful for the lighter and more mobile casts on his hands. There was no feeding tube in, thankfully, although he had refused to discuss with Sam the embarrassment of having a nurse feed him. The Foley catheter…well, that one hurt like a bitch, but he knew how to take one out and with a clenched jaw managed to stifle the groan of pain in his throat. The IV in his arm was last, only a mild sting compared to the protests his body was currently voicing with all of the newfound movement.

Gritting his teeth, Dean slowly swung his legs out to the side. There was a soft cast on his left ankle and brace on his left knee, not enough to cushion them from the impact of his feet hitting the floor, and he could swear his kidneys and ribs and whatever was left of his spleen were about to tuck tail and run. Well, he could hobble. He had to get to Sam, had to talk to him…he wouldn't be left alone again. Couldn't.

Ignoring the fire igniting across his body, Dean started on the impossible journey out of the room and to his brother.

* * *

Sam was a wreck. He couldn't believe what he had done, couldn't fathom the fact that he was standing right in front of the hospital exit doors. His brother, busted up in a hospital because of him. And instead of apologizing, instead of trying to make it right, he had yelled at him, blamed him for the attack, and left.

Oh god. He'd _left_. Left his brother, who was already feeling abandoned by their father, who hated being alone, who was hurt and hated hospitals with a passion, his stupid selfless goofy older brother who had done so much for him…he'd just left him. Ditched him like a pile of old newspapers to be discarded on the side of the road.

What the hell was he doing?

Like that, he was running, heading back down the hallways to his brother's room. He had no idea what he would say or do, had no clue where to even start patching up the holes he just blew into their relationship, but he needed to try, somehow.

He turned the corner, skidding to a stop in front of his brother's room, ready to say something, anything—

—and stopped. The bed was empty, covers tossed aside, wires scattered around as though their owner was in a hurry. An IV needle rested on the cold floor, a few drops of blood accompanying it.

Dean's blood. The only sign of him in the room.

"Oh, god, no."


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: Holy. Guacamole. Over 100 reviews. I'm…I'm shocked. Seriously. Thank you all, so so much, for the reviewing, for keeping up with the chapters, for even taking a passing glance at this story. I had no idea it would be so well received, and I'm so honored to have you reading it. Honestly, I post each chapter while biting my nails because I'm so nervous to actually put my work out there, but your kind words and support have made this such a joy for me. Okay, sappiness aside (at least in the author's note :D), here's the next chapter!

* * *

It was amazing, their form of luck. Good ol' Winchester luck. It never failed. They had the ability to piss off the exact right people and land themselves in the hospital. They were certain to hit every road bump in a simple hunt. More often than not they were digging up graves in the rain, meaning someone would get a cold for the morning. By the same token, though, they also managed to grab the salt when it was most needed, shoot to hit the exact perfect spots (more by skill, of course), and were always there to hear the other's shout in time to save them.

And right now? Well, the luck was going both ways. Dean was grateful to have no one in the hallways to question why a man was hobbling along them, gripping the wall with unsteady hands for support and looking about fit to pass out onto the floor. Sam, on the other hand, was not. To him, the day had decided to throw a big fistful of bad juju his way. There was no Dean around. No one had seen him leave. No one had seen him in the halls.

And the hospital was pretty large. Large enough to give their ICU patients their own rooms.

Large enough for Sam to lose his brother in.

* * *

Dean stumbled down the hallway, vision blurring. _Jeez, this place must be a friggen maze. Dunno how the doctors manage to find their patients in here_.

A sharp pain in his left side had him doubled over, gasping for air. He heard approaching footsteps and ducked into the next corridor. If anyone stopped to take a close look at him they'd see he wasn't fit to be out and about and usher him right back into that godawful room, and he needed to stay out. He needed to find Sam.

Had to find Sam.

He gritted his teeth and continued down the next set of hallways.

* * *

Sam couldn't believe what was happening. The little jackass must have gotten out of bed after he'd left, probably to go after him. Dean was more than likely running around the hallways like an idiot, ignoring his own injuries, with some irrational thoughts bouncing around in his head.

_Not really irrational, Sam. Brotherly. Looking out for you. Like he always is._

"Dammit, Dean, when I find you I am going to kick your ass."

_Please, just let me find you_.

* * *

_Find Sam. Gotta find Sam._

His thoughts were becoming more and more disjointed, pain dulling them down until he felt himself just wandering around, hardly a clue as to what he was doing. He stumbled around, feeling like a drunk who had already commenced his hangover. His senses were blunted, the hall swimming before his eyes and a harsh ringing in his ears.

He felt himself stumble, watched his knee collide with the floor and thought with a disconnected apathy that it should hurt. It didn't though. It was just numb. His entire body was slowly losing all sensation, save for the fire in his side and chest. He hoisted himself up again, pulling onto the side railing with tingling, clumsy fingers, and continued down the hall, uncertain why he was still moving but knowing somehow that he had to keep moving.

A splash of red on the floor by his feet caught his attention, pushed away the fuzzy edges of his mind for a moment. As he stopped and watched, another drop joined it, and another. He followed the drop back up, and stared in surprise as he saw his hospital gown and the red coating it, a thin line trickling down from his chest to drip, drip, drip on the floor. He slowly brought his hand up and pushed against where he knew the stitches from his surgery to be, and pulled away, seeing his fingertips come back bloody.

_Shit_.

* * *

"Shit! Where the hell are you?" Sam had run down the hallways of what felt like half the hospital and still saw no sign of his brother.

_Please, don't tell me he went outside…_

He turned another corner and skidded to a stop, eyes catching on a small drop of blood in front of him.

And another, a few feet down. And another.

_It could be anyone's, could be anyone's, doesn't have to be his…_but Sam followed the trail regardless, run replaced by a slow and cautious gait, one foot quietly in front of the other as though he was afraid to disturb the scene.

The hall came to an end, and Sam turned to the left.

Finding a door to the stairs.

_Ah crap, Dean…_

* * *

He was lying against something cool, refreshing against his skin that had flushed red with the exertion of moving. Firm and cool beneath his hands, his chest, his cheek. He was content to just stay still for a moment.

Until he started to shiver, body racking up small tremors that grew with each passing second. With tremendous effort, he pushed himself up, ignoring the flares in his busted fingers and wrist. He realized he was facing the ground, sprawled out on all fours.

_Floor. I fell on the floor._ Judging by the new ache in his head, he must've had a pretty decent collision with it. He swiveled his head from side to side, immediately stopping once the walls started to quiver around him. He paused until they had stopped, and then shifted his weight to sit up a bit more.

_Stairwell?_

_Stairs, I gotta go down the stairs. Gotta go downstairs and find…gotta find Sammy_.

He managed to get his legs underneath him, shaking like a baby deer's, hardly strong enough to hold his own weight. He grabbed onto the railing for all it was worth and pulled up, leaning and panting heavily against the wall as he looked down at the steps before him.

_Hate stairs._

Taking in a deep breath, and pausing only for a moment to glance down at his chest, at the small red stain slowly blossoming outward, he went to shift a foot forward and start the downhill trek.

* * *

Sam tentatively opened the door to the stairwell, hearing the slight creak as it swiveled on its hinges.

And found his brother slumped against the wall, facing away from him, still trying to move forward.

"Dean!"

_Sam_. Dean tried to turn, but the instant he pushed away from the railing in the wall he started sliding down to the ground, legs betraying him. Sam rushed forward but was too late to stop his brother's fall, and watched as Dean's foot slipped out from underneath him to send him barreling down the stairs, a sharp cry ringing out as he tumbled down followed by a groan as he stopped and went limp on the floor.

"Dean! Shit, shit, Dean!"

Sam flew down the stairs like a bat out of hell to his brother, who was crumpled up like a withered flower in the corner, head pushed at an awkward angle against the wall there. Dean's eyes were closed, and Sam cupped his face tightly, rubbing a thumb over his jawline. "Dean?"

His face was sheet white, sweat dripping down it and flattening his fair hair down onto his scalp, eyes clenched tightly shut. His body was trembling, and quick breaths rushed in and out from between his lips. Lax hands remained close to his chest, blood slowly but surely seeping out from between his shaking fingers. Another gentle tap from Sam along his jaw caused him to groan and pinch his eyes open just a bit.

"Dean? Hey, open your eyes, man. It's okay, I gotcha."

He felt his head roll forward and struggled to lift it again, glazed eyes finally open to settle on Sam's face. "Sammy…"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I've got you, it's okay." _God, he's bleeding again, not again, no— _

"You're here?"

_He sounds so young._ "Yeah, man, I'm here. Where else would I be?"

"Dunno…"

"What the heck were you thinking, huh? Felt like taking a stroll after major surgery?"

A huff of breath, followed by a painful cough, interrupted what Dean was trying to say. Sam pulled his brother closer, feeling the shivers from under the thin gown. He quickly rested a hand on his neck and felt the rapid pulse there, weak and thready. _Shock, he's in shock, he's bleeding and he just fell down the friggen stairs, shit, shit, this is not good. Okay, calm down, calm down_. Sam took a few deep breaths, keeping his gaze fixed on his brother to steady himself.

"Dean, I gotta get you help, okay? Just, don't move for a sec—" Sam started to pull away, looking up towards the stairs, but stopped when an iron grip clasped onto his wrist. "Dean, I have to—"

"Don't. Don' go." Wide eyes stared back at him and the grip tightened. He was stunned at his brother's ability to hold on, especially when he could feel the casts biting into his own skin.

Sam sighed, knowing how scared his brother must be, but nothing else could be done. How many people went into this stairwell at midnight? It was unbelievably awful Winchester luck that had prevented anyone from finding his brother beforehand, and Sam had no reason to believe that that streak would break now.

"I need to. You need help, you're bleeding again and you hit your head and I gotta make sure—"

"You left."

Defenses down, Dean made no effort to hide the pain in that statement. Sam winced as he remembered once again what walking out of that room had meant to his brother. Abandonment, betrayal, by his own family. Again.

"I didn't mean to…I wasn't…" He pulled Dean in a little closer. "I wasn't leaving you. I won't. I'm sorry."

He bit his lip and closed his eyes, panic starting to overtake him. With another deep breath he managed to compose himself enough to turn his attentions back to his brother. Dean's eyes had lowered a bit further, pain and confusion swirling in their green depths as he slumped more against Sam.

"It's okay, man, it's okay. I'm here, alright. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean nodded, head lolling forward to rest on Sam's chest, panting heavy breaths out of his pale lips.

Keeping his brother close, rubbing small circles into his back, Sam started to yell for help, hoping his voice could carry far enough to reach the helping ears.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: My muse appears to be flitting off into lala land, the end result being several snippets of scenes after this one hanging out on my computer. Sneaky little thing. I have attempted to tether her down, but she's sulky and so I'm not thrilled with this next piece, but I'm putting it out here so I can move this story along. Ah, well, I need to stop whumping Dean eventually, I suppose. Hope you like, comfort to come soon.

* * *

"Alright, grab a gurney and stabilize it up top, we've got a patient in here. Sir, what happened?"

Sam looked up, amazed that someone was actually there. He shook himself quickly and answered, "My brother. He went walking around and he fell, he's bleeding, please—"

Two doctors ran down the stairs to them, pulling Sam and Dean apart as they began examining the elder man. Dean writhed to get away from them, flinching in pain and Sam moved forward.

"We need to get him upstairs, now."

"I'm his brother, lemme help." Before they could answer, Sam moved to place an arm behind his brother's back, tilting him back and tucking his other arm behind his knees. Dean squirmed in his grasp, eyes opening and staring back, brow furrowed as he realized he was being carried.

"Unnnnnh…dude…person'l space?"

"Shaddap. No chance, man."

As gently as he could, Sam hoisted his brother up and headed up the stairs, stunned doctors in tow. He could feel the jarring impact each step was having on his brother and did the best to cushion the impact, but even Dean's gritted teeth, forming an iron barrier, couldn't stop the winces that passed his lips. They reached the top and the doors were held open for them while Sam went through, lowering his brother onto the provided gurney. Dean groaned as his battered body was bustled around, feeling another white-hot surge up through his chest. The gurney started to move and his world began to spin around him. "Sam—"

"Right here, Dean, right here. I'm not leaving, I've got you."

They began the trek down the hall, Sam finding the familiar grasp on his brother's forearm and never relinquishing his hold.

* * *

The walk down to a trauma room took a lifetime. Sam kept his eyes glued to his brother, watching his face grow a bit paler and eyes sink down a bit lower. He kept up a stream of encouragement, babbling phrases of _it's okay_ and _I've got you_. Dean just focused on pushing the gray away before it consumed him, trying desperately to stay awake. He'd found his brother, now he just needed to stay with him.

They made it to a room and the attendings sprang into action, setting up monitors and reinserting an IV into Dean's arm. He moaned, and Sam leaned over his brother, hand holding his arm tightly. "It's okay, Dean."

With a grimace, Dean managed to swivel his head around enough to look his brother directly in the eye.

"Sammy…get the guns."

"What?"

"There's…friggen army…invasion…'f mother hens, out there…dude."

Sam laughed, a few errant tears starting to pool in his eyes. "You ass. You'll be lucky not to land in the hospital again when I'm through with you, ya big jerk."

"Hm…" He drifted off, gaze wavering around the room. Sam let himself get pulled backwards and out of the room, eyes still locked on his brother, making sure his chest was moving and no flatline was there to taunt him this time.

"Sam!" The shout from down the hall was enough to tear his gaze away. Marie ran towards him, hair in disarray and nothing but pure alarm on her face. "I just got the page, I'm so sorry, I had no idea he would try to walk out—"

"It's okay, it's…it's alright." _Not your fault, not yours, mine. My fault my fault my fault_…She stopped to give him a firm squeeze on the shoulder before heading into the room.

* * *

Dean felt hands around him, pushing and pulling and prying, but this time he knew where he was, understood what was happening. Being the supreme idiot he was sure to be, he realized faintly that his little jaunt through the hospital probably pulled a few stitches. That tumble down the steps wasn't a good addition either, judging by the throbbing in his head. He heard Marie's familiar soothing voice and swiveled his head to face her. She flashed him a quick smile before leaning over to talk to the doctor.

Movement outside the room caught his attention, and he focused on the figure out there. His little brother, hands fisting in his hair, eyes watery and red…dammit, he'd managed to freak out Sammy yet again. He pulled more strength from deep within himself to focus fully on his brother's face, locking eyes and trying to give a small smile while the doctors and nurses bustled around him. That face was grounding, stable. It helped him focus and kept him from panicking at the feeling of too many, too much around him. He held that gaze until someone pulled the shades down and blocked him out, leaving him alone in a room full of people. And scared.

_Sammy_…

* * *

They let him grasp his brother's hand as they left the room and wheeled him down the hall. He whispered a few quick encouragements in his brother's ear, and heard a small quirp of _bitch, I'll be okay, Sammy_ before backing up and watching his brother once again disappear down the hall.

Marie stayed behind, letting the doctors do their work. She had another boy to take care of here, and gently guided Sam into the now-empty room, sitting him down in a corner chair as he looked at her, shock and fear in his eyes.

"What is it now? He's, he was bleeding. He was bleeding from his chest, does…does that mean—"

"He's torn a few stitches from his surgical incision but those are easily fixed. They need to take him for a few scans, see if his ribs have shifted or if there's any new damage around his spleen. If there are they need to open him up again and repair it."

"Dammit." Sam seemed to shrink before her eyes, shoulders slouching and head leaning forward to bury itself in his hands.

"I'm going to go check on him, okay? I'll let you know as soon as I can what's going on. Sam?" She hadn't bothered to sugar coat it for him; they'd spent too much time around each other for any half-truths, and she knew he could never buy them anyway. But right now, her explanation seemed to be a bit too much for the rapidly crumbling brother.

"Sam, you need to keep it together here, alright? We're going to take good care of him."

He nodded, head still in his hands.

"Come on, we've gotten him this far, right? Don't doubt us, Sam. And don't doubt him, you know he'll keep pushing. I'll keep you updated, sweetie."

With that, she left, trusting Sam to pull it together for his brother.


	25. Chapter 25

He let the world spin around him, twisting and dancing before his eyes even as they closed. If he concentrated he could almost pretend it was a carnival ride, like the ones he and Dean went on when they were younger and Dad gave everyone a few days off to relax. There was this one, _The Chaos_ it was called, that Dean just loved. They strapped people side by side into two-person pods, flimsy little things, and the ride would spin and flip and swing all the while rotating around the center. They must have gone on it a dozen times, never wanting to stop.

This kind of felt like that. Except, here, he was desperately looking forward to getting off the ride.

He'd gone back into Dean's room, unsure of what to do or where to go. All of their things were still there, Sam's phone, Dean's phone, Sam's bag and jacket, some magazines. The bed had been stripped and new linens added, stray wires all tidied up, and no sign of the blood dotting the floor. He wondered if he would have to head back into the waiting room, take up a spot in that chair again, the one he'd sat in after he'd seen his brother dead and had been forced back there to wait, Dean's blood on his hands.

He was not a fan of that chair.

It was complete surprise that overtook him when he saw his brother wheeled back into the room a few hours later, a doctor and several nurses with him. Out like a light and a small grin on his face assuring Sam it was a pleasant slumber—likely due to morphine pumping into his system—Dean was unresisting as they transferred him back to his bed.

"How is he?"

The doctor, an unfamiliar face to Sam—who had been acquainted and was on a first-name basis with several doctors, a surgeon, and multiple nurses—turned and clasped his hands together, turning his nose up at Sam.

"Well, you'll be happy to hear he does not need surgery. There are no signs of internal injuries along any of his ribs, and while we did note one internal stitch had pulled, it is still holding and there is no bleeding involved. We've redone the other torn stitches."

Sam felt the world that had been spinning around him come to a grinding, blessed halt. _He's alright. He's okay, he's okay, he's going to get better._

"His head injury is very minor, he'll probably be a bit sore for a bit but there's no concussion. The biggest issue is his knee. Walking around has aggravated it quite a bit, and it's much more inflamed than it was before. We'll keep a close eye on it and prescribe some anti-inflammatories and painkillers, but he needs to stay off of it for at least three weeks. When he's discharged we'll give him crutches, but I don't recommend using them unless in an emergency. The strain on his chest outweighs the benefits of mobility in this case, you see."

_Okay, Dean, you're parking your ass in front of the TV for the next three weeks_.

"Your brother is a lucky man, his own lack of safety for himself notwithstanding. Please do make sure he doesn't do anything like this again? It's quite a stress on everyone to have to keep an eye out for unruly patients like these."

The doctor stopped himself then, feeling the temperature in the room suddenly drop as the brother's eyes turned darker on him, his initial look of relief replaced by something a bit more dangerous.

"Unruly?"

"Oh, well, not so much unruly as—"

"I appreciate the update, doctor, you can leave now." Sam's voice had dropped lower, softer, protective instincts for his family kicking in. He might be angry at his brother and ready to kick his ass when he woke up, but he'd be damned before he let anyone else take a shot at him.

The doctor could feel the threats emanating from the man and thought it prudent to follow his instructions.

"Y-yes, of course, you have a good night, now. His regular doctor will be back in to check on him in the morning." With that, he made his hasty exit. The nurses who had been with him snickered, and one turned to Sam with a smile. "He's kind of an ass, don't worry about him. Your brother's alright and we'll be keeping a close eye on him."

"Thank you."

They left as well, leaving Sam to resume his post with Dean at his side once more.

"See that, sleepyhead, you've gone and pissed off the doctors. Go figure the nurses are still into you though, huh." Knowing Dean wouldn't answer him, it was actually a bit easier to talk, the threat of judgement removed for the moment.

"You do anything like this again, man, and I'm strapping your ass down to the bed for the next month." He paused and sighed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the bed. "I'm sorry I pushed you into thinking you had to do that. I'm not going anywhere, Dean, I promise."

With the stress of the last few hours catching up with him, Sam let his head fall onto his arms, too worn out to care about the hell he'd receive from his back at its uncomfortable treatment. He closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.

* * *

"I thought only the sick people get the bed."

"Uuuuumph?" Sam lurched up, eyes half-open and mouth agape, to see his brother smirking at him. "Well, that's a pretty picture of you, Sam, I wish I had a camera."

He pulled back, feeling the hard knot of discomfort in his back, the old familiar friend, and worked his shoulders around, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "How long you been up?"

"Eh, like an hour or so." Dean didn't look much worse for the wear, thankfully. Bags perhaps a bit heavier under his eyes, and a small furrow in his brow indicating a bit more pain than before, but otherwise okay.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I'm not your butler, man. Besides, you make funny faces when you sleep and I needed entertainment, there's nothing on the TV."

"Dean—"

"I tell ya man, it's cute, like a puppy having a dream. You could get a lot of ladies with those looks, plus you don't have to worry about making conversation with them." Dean's smile had widened a bit more, mischievous glint in his eyes. He didn't fail to notice that Sammy didn't seem to want to reciprocate any sort of banter, though. Judging by the emotions swimming in the kid's eyes, anger being at the forefront, Dean could guess why.

"Let me guess, I'm in trouble here, huh."

Sam ignored it and followed with his go-to question, "You feeling okay? Any more pain?"

"Chest is a little sorer than before, but I'm alright." He sank back and waited for Storm Sammy to erupt.

It didn't though, and Dean wasn't sure if that was a way of tormenting him a bit more or if Sam was just trying to figure out the most effective words. The guy did get stuck in his head too often.

Not that Dean hadn't spent some quality time in his own. He'd freaked out a bit after he'd lost sight of Sam as the doctors took him down the hall, shoving him around into a new room, more orders shouted over his head while he laid there and tried not to jump up and run like a frightened rabbit. He figured one time touring the hospital halls on his bare feet was enough. Then they'd given him those fake smiles and told him everything was fine and knocked him out before he'd had the chance to process any of it.

The last hour, Sam asleep almost in his lap, he'd spent watching his little brother. This hospital trip was turning out to be worse for Sam than it was for him. The song was always the same in their family: someone gets hurt, the others worry themselves sick over it and everyone leaves a little more burdened and scarred than before. It wasn't fair to Sammy to have to deal with this.

And Dean had made it worse. _Looks like I should be mending a few fences. Here goes_.

Sam saw the apologetic look in his brother's eyes and let the aggravation and annoyance mask the fear in his own, and he tensed, ready to pounce on his brother's excuses.

"Look, Sam—"

"Don't." Not angry, but collected and firm, not what Dean was expecting.

"Come on—"

"I mean it. We're not going to talk about this one, alright. You're in one piece and you're damn well gonna stay that way. Here's how it's going. You're staying here, you're gonna do exactly what the doctors tell you this time, and we leave when they say it's okay. No arguing."

"Dude—"

"No." Sam turned to face his brother directly. "You scared the living hell out of me, man."

_You scared your little brother. Well done, Dean, nice going with the older brother routine._ They both sighed, heavy and deep matching the weight in their hearts. "I'm sorry, Sam. For what it's worth, I am.

"And…ugh…I'll listen to the friggen docs, okay?"

Truth in his brother's eyes, Sam slumped back with relief. It looked like they had one marker down, and a few more to go.

* * *

A/N: Took all the willpower I had not to keep whumping Dean, but Sam and Dean have been looking pretty frazzled lately so I figured it was best to cut them a break before the poor guys tuck tail and run away on me.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Sammy almost staged a coup on me the other day, so I told him I'd patch him up in this chapter. Poor guy, he needs it. Warning for chick-flickiness. Mhm, it's happening. I have no shame. I love it.

* * *

They'd fallen back into their earlier routine, a few empty conversations adding to the space between them, tentative truce drawn between the battle lines. Dean had agreed to comply with the doctor's wish to have him stay a week, complete with angry huffs and rolling eyes, and had gone over the aftercare plans with the doctor and Sam.

Medical mumbo jumbo taken care of, Dean turned his attentions to finally cracking open the nut of the brother next to him and getting the big guy to talk before he gave himself an ulcer. He groaned internally; heartfelt conversations were not his forte. But seeing Sam unhappy would simply not fly.

_Here we go._

"So, we gonna talk about it?"

"What?" _Don't start this, dammit, Dean._

"You know? I'm feeling a mandatory chick-flick moment coming up soon, so we might as well jump into it now while I'm still hopped up on painkillers."

"Dean, that's not—"

"Ah, come on, I can see it practically brimming out of those doe-eyes of yours. Come on, get it off your chest. I'll play ball."

"There's nothing to get off—aw come on, don't snicker, you ass."

"Hey, you said it. Now come on. I'm not an idiot, I can tell something big is bothering you. What is it?"

"It's nothing."

Dean pursed his lips. Usually Sam was always ready to dish out his latest goods. Since he'd finally gotten around to helping him move on from the pain of losing Jessica, soothing the nightmares and the guilt and grief, Sam had let his brother in much more, like he used to when they were younger. It helped them both, made the duo better together as partners and brothers.

But now, Sam was shut down tighter than a clam in a vice grip. Which meant, more than likely, that the kid felt guilty. _Dammit, Sammy_. God only knew what warped version of that night he'd managed to come up with, twisting it into some guilt-ridden nightmare where Sam was responsible for Dean getting his ass handed to him.

"That's bullshit. Talk, Sammy."

"Dude, will you just drop it?! For crying out loud, you think maybe I'm still a little worked up about the fact that you almost _died_? You practically bled out in the seat of your friggen car, man. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that _after_ you almost died, you decided to go for a little walk around the hospital just to see if you could make yourself bleed out again? Or maybe the fact that you don't seem to give a damn about yourself right now, just shrugging this thing off like it's a stubbed toe. It _is_ a big deal, Dean. And yeah, it's bothering me! So just drop it."

Sam's breath came out in huffs. He hadn't meant to yell at his brother, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. Anything to keep what he was so afraid to say to his brother, terrified of what that would bring up between them.

Except, by the way Dean was looking at him, diversions and outbursts weren't about to do any good.

"That's not it. I've known you your entire life, I can tell when you're deflecting. And that's not what's eating you up right now. So I'm going to sit in this bed and you're going to sit in that chair and you are going to talk. Sam. Talk to me."

"What the hell do you think I'm doing right now?"

"No. Talk. To. Me." And Dean leveled his gaze to his brother's, unwavering.

"Dean…"

Sam knew he was caught when Dean gave him that stare. The penetrating, calculating one that saw right trough anything and everything.

"What's going on in that head of yours, Sammy?"

It was a courtesy question. More than likely Dean had already figured it all out. It wasn't like Sam had exactly been subtle over the past few days.

"Talk to me, man."

And Sam sank a little further into the chair, defeated. "Dammit, Dean…it's…it's my fault." That tiny little admission of guilt, whispered out, managed to fill the room. Sam buried his head in his hands, reaching back to fist his hair.

"It's my fault that you're in this, Dean, it's all my—I sent you out that night, I made you go alone, and now—god, Dean, I'm so sorry. This whole time, I just—you were dying right in front of me, you died right in front of me, and I just couldn't stop thinking how I should have stopped this from happening. It's all on me, it's my fault. I'm sorry, god, I'm so—"

"Sam."

He wouldn't let himself look at Dean, but he knew what he would see there. More than likely some slightly repressed anger at Sam for doing this to him, which he'd probably hide behind some halfhearted jokes so as to not hurt his little brother.

He wasn't really expecting the seriousness that came from his brother next.

"You listen very carefully to me. _This was not your fault._ You did not do this to me, just by asking for friggen takeout. None of this is on you. You didn't send those bastards down that alley, you didn't tell them to come after me, and you sure as hell didn't dish out any punches. This is not your fault, you understand?"

"Dean—"

"No. Jeez, Sam, this is really why you've been acting so wonky?"

"But, I—"

"Sam, I mean it. You can't possibly think that this could be on you. That's like connecting Zeppelin with…I dunno, the fall of the Roman Empire."

"Those were at two different times, you know." Sam spoke quietly but had slowly raised his head from his shoulders.

"Fine, connecting polar bears with the fall of the Roman Empire. You gonna quiz me on history, now?"

Sam kept his eyes cast down, guilt still eating away at him. "If I hadn't been such a pain over food, you wouldn't have had to go out, and this wouldn't have happened."

"Maybe, maybe not. Who's to say they wouldn't have found me if I went out to the bar that night? Which, by the way, would probably have been even worse because you could have been asleep."

"Well then I should've gone out with you, we could've—"

"What? Both gotten our asses kicked? Eight on two isn't much better odds than eight on one, man, and they probably had more on backup. Then we'd both be laid up and I'd be stuck in a bed next to you listening to you complain about your chipped fingernail."

Dean sure as hell was trying to fix his little brother, but Sam just couldn't let him. There was so much to feel sorry for, so much to apologize for, so much on his shoulders, and he couldn't believe that Dean could forgive him so easily.

"I yelled at you," uttered quietly through clenched teeth.

Dean had to laugh at how much of a four year old Sam sounded there. "Newsflash, kiddo, we're brothers. Dunno if you got the memo, but brothers fight every once in a while."

"I left you." A breath of a sound, barely audible, but just another piece of the monster chewing away in the pit in Sam's stomach.

At that, Dean's face clouded over for a second but cleared just as quickly. "Now you're just grasping at straws. I don't have you on a leash, man; you're free to go where you want. And in case you forgot, I was the drug addled idiot who decided to go after you."

"Dean…"

"You're not allowed to put any of this on yourself. It's not, none of it. There's nothing to be sorry for."

Sam looked down, still reluctant to let himself off the hook so easily. But Dean, always so attuned to what his brother needed, decided to go for the punch line.

"Sam. I don't blame you. I never did. Honest truth, I swear. So you can't apologize because I have no reason to forgive you when I don't blame you in the first place."

Sam finally looked his brother in the eye. Dean might have been able to put on the perfect faces for every occasion, but Sam could always find what he was looking for in those green eyes. It was how he knew when Dean was sick or hurt or hurting, angry or upset. He'd read him like a book for eighteen years. So he looked. And saw concern, acceptance, and love, pouring out from them. No anger, no blame, no judgement.

And right there, all the quiet understanding, Sam's words finally out in the open and Dean's gentle soothing of each and every hurt his brother had built up over the past week, the tenuous space between them finally filled with the old familiar sense of peace and comfort.

And Sam felt the guilt just roll off his shoulders. Incredible what a drugged up, injured big brother could do with a few soft spoken words. He supposed that after a lifetime of this, it shouldn't surprise him that Dean knew just where to apply the salve to heal the wound.

He was surprised, though, when Dean opened his arms out to him. He raised his eyebrows in question.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "Come here and get this over with before I vomit on you from a sharing and caring overdose. I'm gonna need a hot nurse and a sponge bath after this."

Sam smirked. "You do smell, dude."

"Shut up and give me a hug, bitch."


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: Getting close to the end, here! I had two storylines partially written out for how to wrap it up and have been bouncing the two back and forth in my head for a while now. I'm going with this one because I believe this is what the Season 1 boys would have done, hope you like. Don't worry though, there is a bit more to come.

A/N 2: To all my lovely reviewers and followers, thank you! It's been a few days since I last posted and I wanted to get this up quickly, so I will respond to reviews as soon as I can!

* * *

The days passed smoothly for the two Winchesters, Dean's consistent grumbling and Sam's gentle reprimands making the situation almost normal again. The two kept eyes on each other, each one making sure the other was improving, though both too stubborn to admit what they were doing. Dean was slowly weaned off of the heavy duty painkillers and antianxiety meds, catheter removed, hard cast on his wrist replaced with a soft one, and on the third day after his run around the hospital, they agreed to let him out of bed.

The method of moving around, though, was not sitting well with Dean. _Sitting_ being the key word.

"I am not parading around in a fricken wheelchair."

"Dean, it's either the wheelchair or you stay in that bed."

"Come on, man, this is so not fair."

"You know you sound like a five year old right now."

"Shaddap. What's the point of getting out of this seated position into another friggen seated position! This is not musical chairs, genius."

"Dean—"

"Just let me use the crutches."

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "You can't. We've been over this, man. They'll put too much pressure on your chest. You wanna earn yourself more time in here with more busted ribs or a collapsed lung?"

"I'll be fine! We're just taking a walk around the hall, it's no big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal, have you even been listening to me?"

"Eh, I drift in and out."

"Well, drift in for a second because I'm not saying this again. Wheelchair or bed."

They were an interesting sight for Marie to observe, and she did so quietly, not wanting to interrupt their moment. Those boys were as stubborn as oxen, and Dean looked fit to huff like a bull, too. Arms as far crossed over his chest as he could bear without too much strain on his chest, a frown on his lips, and creases of frustration on his face, along with those piercing eyes, and Marie was certain he was about to lay one down on his brother.

Until she shifted her gaze to the younger boy. And lo and behold, puppy dog eyes that were fit to rule the world.

* * *

Sure enough, ten minutes later the elder brother was quietly allowing himself to be wheeled out to the hall, Sam at the helm with a smirk on his face.

They headed out to the more open desk area on their floor, where the two stopped in front of the bay window. Marie let them be for a while with promises to check in later. They sat in silence and comfort, soaking up the rays of the setting sun.

Sam quietly studied his brother, keeping an eye on the man's steadily improving condition. The lines of pain that had marred his face so prevalently over the past week and more had faded into the background, to be replaced with his usual laughter lines. His skin, which had been all too pale for Sam's liking, was back to its peach tone, although he would argue that Dean was always too pale anyway. He seemed to be comfortable enough in the chair, keeping his back arched higher than usual to prevent pressure on the stitches but otherwise relaxed.

Sam soaked it all in, filing the images away into his robotic mind. Letting them copy over the ones of him bloodied in the warehouse, slumped in the frontseat, dead on the gurney. And they did, to a point, layering over those awful memories so they could slowly fade, but never completely disappear.

None of them would ever really be gone, not for either of the boys. But the pair was on the mend, and right then, that was all that mattered.

* * *

After a while they returned to the hospital room, settling back in for the evening.

"Hey, mother hen, are you ever gonna give me some peace and quiet? You spend any more time here and all the nurses are gonna think I'm gay. Kinda hard to get any here that way, man."

Sam just rolled his eyes at the poorly disguised suggestion. "Yeah, that's exactly my point in being here. My master plan to sabotage you in the bedroom."

"Technically it's a hospital room."

"Ugh, Dean…I really don't need that image in my head."

Ignoring Dean's cheeky grin at him, Sam continued. "You know, the cops haven't been back around. You never told me what you said to them."

Dean sighed, eyes closing. "Nothing special. I told 'em I got jumped, didn't know the guys, couldn't really see any of their faces. They said some mumbo jumbo about an investigation and thanked me, and that's all she wrote."

"What the hell, man? Why'd you do that? Those assholes deserve prison, at the least."

"Last thing we need is the cops in our business. They snoop around us long enough and they're gonna figure out I'm not Dean Smith or whatever the hell you checked me in as. Besides, I'm supposed to be a dead man in St. Louis, remember?"

Sam opened his mouth to argue but shut it again, realizing his brother was right. They had stayed here too long as it was, and any further involvement of authorities would not end well for them. The last thing they needed was for someone to find out their insurance was phony or to stumble across the numerous warrants out on Dean, not to mention his death certificate.

"So, what happens to them?"

"We leave, and put a star on this town to not swing by again if we can avoid it, just like St. Louis."

Sam just stared. Dean was not one to back off of a fight so easily. Even less so when he was wounded. He figured his brother would want revenge, badly. "Really? Just like that? They don't get any punishment for what they did." And true, Sam was looking forward to beating the crap out of those men himself.

"They aren't worth it."

"But Dean—"

"Please, Sam, just drop it. They'll get what's coming to them eventually. 'S not our problem."

"I can't believe you're just going to let them off the hook like that."

He shrugged noncommittally, refusing to elaborate.

"Is that really what you want, or is something else going on here?"

"Look, our alternatives are pressing charges or killing them, right? And we don't kill people, Sam, you know that. And if I go up against these guys to put them in jail we'll be here forever, which is not something we have the luxury or the time to do. Forget about it. We get out, we move on."

He wanted to push the issue further, but the look on Dean's face told him they were done. His brother looked worn out, events of the day and reminders of a horrible night catching up to him.

"Okay, if that's really what you want. Okay." Dean was Sam's first priority. He wanted to get him out of here, healed up. Then maybe another time he would come back and give those men what they deserved.

He didn't see Dean's eyes cloud over as he thought back to another message the men had given him, while beating the holy hell out of him.

"_Maybe we should go find his buddy, ya think? Give him a little special treatment too?"_

Dean leaned back, feeling wearier than ever. "Why don't you head back to the motel, Sammy, get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

"I don't mind—"

"I know you don't, but you spend too much time here already. I'm telling you man, it's a little weird. Go back, get some sleep, for crying out loud eat something. The nurses have got to be sick of feeding your dinosaur appetite, and I can't keep charming 'em into giving you free food."

Sam hesitated, the terror and guilt he felt night of their fight still fresh despite their reconciliation. "Okay. Call me if you need anything, anything at all, 'kay?'

Dean laughed. "We gonna go through this ritual every night? I'll be fine, almighty mother hen. Your little baby chickadee will call if he needs anything."

"Jerk." Sam gave his brother one last pat on his arm before departing his beloved chair and heading to the door. "Don't go running around the hospital again, because I'm not going to go after your ass this time, got it?"

"Yessir. Night Sammy."

"Night Dean."

Dean watched him go, smirking as he realized Sam would be alright. Joking about the incident, able to leave the room for more than ten minutes without a panic attack. His color was better too, the lines of stress on his face and heavy bags under his eyes less pronounced. Finally, hopefully, able to get the guilt monkey off his back. Sam had passed Dean's screening tests for the day. His brother was okay.

With that, Dean lowered his bed and closed his eyes, able to rest peacefully.

Just before he slipped under, Dean thought with a smile, _tomorrow I get to start bugging him about getting the heck out of here. I wonder which bitchface that'll give me._

_Ooh, I hope it's number ten._


	28. Chapter 28

"Cause I'm as FREE as a bird, now, _and this bird you cannot chaaaaaaaaaange_!—"

"Dean, for the love of god, if you don't stop I will suffocate you with your pillow." Sam had his eyes scrunched in irritation but a smile graced his face. It was tough to maintain a bad mood with such a gleeful brother, and Dean had every reason to be happy: after nearly two weeks in the hospital, the last three days with constant badgering on Dean's part to the doctor, he had finally received the okay for discharge.

"Aw, come on man, cheer up! This is a joyous occasion. Marie! Get the champagne!"

Marie just smirked at the two boys. "Sorry, kid, I left it in the other fridge. Besides, you know the rules, no booze until you've finished your regiment. Now that's—"

"Yep, I got it. Horse pills twice a day until they're done, yes ma'am."

"Good. And…?"

"Be sure to show off the scars with a rescuing baby from a bear story, got it."

"Dean." Marie pulled out her award-winning momma stare for the man in the bed.

Dean's pout would have put any five year old child's to shame. "General bedrest until the ribs are healed, crutches only sparingly. No strenuous activities for another few months."

"And?"

"No driving for another few weeks. Jeesh, you tyrant."

"Deal with it." She smiled down at him as Sam helped him forward to swing his legs off the bed, hospital scrubs on because Dean had adamantly refused to allow Sam to change him into jeans. Dean eased into a pair of moccasins—another issue with him, but Marie had steadfastly forbidden boots with his ankle and it would take a small miracle to sway her decision—and hoisted himself up, sliding off the bed and down into the wheelchair.

"You know, if you're going to make patients roll around in these, you should at least paint some decent wheel on 'em. Just sayin." He ducked to receive the quick cuff to his head, courtesy of Sam.

"Man, the way you act you're lucky she doesn't give you a wheelbarrow to move around on."

"As long as it's got a cassette player and some awesome speakers."

"You're a child, dude."

In truth, Sam couldn't be happier with his brother's behavior. After the insanity of the last few weeks, it was a pleasant change to get back some semblance of normalcy. With a little rehab and a lot of complaints Dean would be back to 100 percent and the brothers would be back to their old ways.

And then Sam could get onto figuring out a way to get justice on the men who had thrown them into this mess. Which was a fact he was gently withholding from Dean for the time being, at least until Dean could manage a bit more on his own. He had understood the rationale behind his brother's arguments, but it wasn't just something he could let go so easily, and he was determined to at least keep tabs on the men until he could do something about them.

Marie handed Sam the list of prescriptions and instructions on physiotherapy exercises for Dean's knee and walked them out, down the elevator and to the main exit doors.

"Alright, boys, this is your stop."

Dean took Sam's arm to lift himself up and gently stationed himself on the crutches handed out by Marie, smirking at the tough woman in front of him. "Aw, I know you're gonna miss me. Can't help it, though, I'm just a free bird, honey."

"Cute, but you're no Skynyrd. Now get out of here, and I don't want to see your mug back on this side of the doors, okay?"

"That I will definitely comply with." He stopped to give her a sincere smile, nothing but pure gratitude for the woman who had been there from the jump for both of them. "Thanks for everything, Marie, really."

She squeezed his shoulder tightly, and turned to Sam. "Take care of him, alright?"

"Will do. If he gets to be too much of a pain I'm dumping him back on you, though."

She laughed and shook her head, pleased to see such a drastic change in Sam's demeanor. He looked nothing like the man who had sat in this room before, all six foot four of him about ready to fall apart and begging for some answers. The color had gone back into his cheeks, steps lighter than before, and he actually looked happy, not stressing himself sick with some kind of guilt or worry.

"Look, um…thank you. For everything. I honestly don't know how to—"

"No need. Just take care of yourself, too."

And with a few more smiles and waves, the boys were out the door and on their way, brotherly banter filling the air as they went.

Marie eyed them for a moment more. She had surprised herself with how much the pair had grown on her, and it was with mixed feelings that she watched them go.

* * *

"Yeesh, no wonder you spent all your time in the hospital, this place is a dump, dude."

Sam just rolled his eyes as Dean took up his usual post on the bed by the door, stretching out to relieve the pressure the car ride had put on him.

"How you feeling?"

"I'm good. I'd be better if your driving didn't suck so much."

"At least I can stay awake in the car long enough to make it back to the motel." Sam had had to gently rouse his slightly snoring brother from the backseat when they arrived; Dean wouldn't admit it, but any movement on the crutches tended to wear him out quickly.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm warning you, though, if you screw up my car while I can't drive her I am kicking your ass into next week."

A pillow and a bottle of pills were tossed his way as a response.

* * *

That night, after he'd determined Sam to be asleep, Dean went over the last few weeks again. Not that he'd ever admit to Sam about any type of internal observation, but a stay in the hospital left a lot of time for a man to think.

He thought back to how wrecked Sam looked in the hospital, filled to the brim with stress and worry and looking like he needed a bed and an IV more than Dean did. The guilt shadowing his brother's features had become a flashbulb memory for him. To even consider that Sam could be responsible was ludicrous, but he knew the kid would probably milk it internally for a long time, unable to shake the feeling that he could have done something even when there was nothing to be done. It sickened him, seeing his brother so distraught over an event he had no control over.

He thought back to his own fear, not only for himself when he was alone in the warehouse, but to the idea that the men who had attacked him had remembered Sam and threatened him. Drunken utterance or not, that had scared him more than his own injuries had. The thought of not being able to stop them while they tore into his little brother…he knew Sam wasn't a child any more, but it never stopped his instinctual need to protect him.

It always went back to Sam. Dean wasn't some selfless martyr looking to die a valiant death in a blaze of glory, but he'd willingly kill and die a thousand times over for his brother. Sam had been his world since age four, a focal point for everything Dean did, and such a massive part of who Dean was. And this attack, this mess they'd been thrown into by something that wasn't even supernatural, had hurt his brother.

And Dean wanted so badly to just run back into that bar, find the drunken bastards, and beat them down until they couldn't get up anymore. But that couldn't happen when he couldn't even keep a fighting stance for more than two minutes without getting woozy. He needed to do something, felt the itch under his skin trying to spur him into action, but couldn't figure out where to start. How to turn the tables on them without alerting his brother or putting him in harm's way, how to teach them not to threaten his family without getting pummeled again himself.

It appeared as though any thoughts of payback would have to wait for the time being.

He listened to Sam's even breaths in the other bed, and breathed out a long sigh of his own. His brother was safe, with him. They were both alive and together. That would have to do for now.

* * *

A/N: Sam and Dean have raised a formal complaint to me about letting the mean bullies off the hook, so of course I must comply. Justice (and whumpage!) needed, right? More soon!


	29. Chapter 29

They left the next day, Impala loaded up with their few belongings, Dean loaded up in the back with prescription painkillers and antibiotics and an incessantly chatty Sammy who had decided to take on the sole positions of physical therapist and pain in the ass.

"Okay, I've got one pillow here for your knee and the other one for your back. If your chest or incisions start to hurt lemme know and I'll pull over and we'll try something else. If you get tired or you want to stop to eat or something just say it, no problem. And if—"

"Sam."

"What?" Hair strewn about his face, blankets and pillows in his hands, Sam looked like a harried mother rushing to make her children's beds in the morning.

"Give me the pillows. Get in the front seat, start the car, and drive."

"Oh." Sam looked down at himself, realizing what he was doing. "Okay."

Dean rolled his eyes at the mother of all mother hens, certain he was going to lose his mind before the drive was done.

"Hurry your ass up. Sooner we get somewhere, the sooner we can look up another hunt to chew into. I tell you, I'm going stir crazy."

Sam didn't bother to look at him when he spoke, putting the car into drive and hearing her pleasant roar over being back on the road again. "Not an icicle's chance in hell, man. We hole up and you heal and no hunts until you can outrun me again. And no debate or you don't get a motel with magic fingers."

"Well, you're no fun."

* * *

They stopped a few hours later, back in another motel in another nameless city, but further away from the town that neither one wanted to be near. Both took up their posts and for a while just enjoyed each other's company.

Out of the blue, Dean approached another subject that had been stewing away in the back of his mind, just another one to add to the neverending list of items to worry about. "Hey, how we doing on finances?"

"Hm?"

"Well, my little stint in the hospital means we burned out an insurance and a credit card, and you paid for that dingy motel for two weeks, so how laid up are we?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Sam—"

"It's not a big deal, okay? Yeah, we're a little low, but we've got a few more cards we can use if we really need to and we still have the cash that you got…that you got at the bar."

Dean sighed, feeling the weight in his chest grow a little more, and not from the broken ribs or scarring, healing tissue above them. "Sorry, Sammy. I guess we'll be living a bit more tightly than usual for a bit."

He could practically _hear_ his brother's eyes roll before the huff that followed. "Shut up, Dean. You don't get to apologize for that, you idiot."

"Will you stop calling me an idiot? I'm still the injured one, here."

"Exactly, you jerk, you're injured! So don't worry about the money or the driving or hunts or me, and just focus on yourself for a change!"

It was back again, the anger with the undercurrent of something more, something unhealthy. Something that Dean had to get rid of before it swallowed his little brother whole.

"I have to worry about you Sam, you know that, especially—"

"Dean—"

"Ahem, _especially_, when you still seem to find a way to worry yourself sick over things _you_ can't stop focusing on."

"What?"

"See, you can't call me an idiot. I got that, at least. What's eating you now? You still somehow blaming yourself for this? I tell you what, you let this go and the next time I stub my toe you can get all upset over that instead, okay? Anything to get you to stop beating yourself up over it, because, for the last time, this was not your fault."

"Shuddup, Dean. That's…" Sam trailed off with a huff of irritation, running his hand over his face and leaning up over the side of the bed. "That's not it."

Dean pushed himself up to try and match his brother's stance, succeeding only partially when his ribs started to protest and leaning back with a small groan. "Then what is it?"

"I just…I don't get how you can just let them go."

"Oh." Dean averted his eyes, not wanting to broach the subject. He didn't want to admit to his brother that he had no idea how to handle it, no clue on the right path to take.

It was for things like these that he was reminded again how much he missed his father. John always just knew what to do, never doubting his convictions for a moment. He'd have it all figured out in an instant complete with a small affectionate whack on the back of Dean's head for not seeing the solution himself.

Sam, on the other hand, had all nerve firings focused directly on Dean. "Oh? I was expecting a little more fight from you than that, man." He had been ready for a confrontation, some rough words and then a dismissive 'I'm the older brother so we do it my way' of some sort.

"Look, I—"

"I know what you said, and I know we can't have you go up against them, but we can't just let them go like that. I can't."

"Stop right there, because you're sure as hell not going after them yourself."

"Dean—"

"It's not gonna happen, Sammy. For the record, I've been thinking, and I agree with you, alright? Those guys shouldn't be out on the streets, I mean, chances are they've done this to other people, too.

"Okay, so, what do we do, then?"

Dean sighed heavily again. Sam was looking to him for answers, just like he used to, the older brother who always had the solution. It was a mirror image of how Dean used to view John, an idealistic pedestal that he sometimes still put his father on—like now. It appeared Sam was doing the same thing here, and he almost laughed at the way they both had regressed. Although, teenaged Sam never really figured out that Dean's supposed knowledge of all was a poor mockery, a carefully constructed façade to cover his terror over making a mistake and getting his family hurt or letting his brother down.

"I don't know. We can't go to the cops, you know that, but this isn't some case where we go in and gank the monster, you know? They're still people."

"So, what, you just wanna beat the crap out of them? Dean, that's not what I meant."

"It doesn't matter now anyway." Dean let out a small, halfhearted laugh. "Two on eight won't go so well even if we're prepared, and yeah, I hate to admit it, but I'm not really up for throwing punches right now. I think we gotta wait, figure out something else."

"That's it?" Sam's crestfallen face made Dean want to lie, come up with a perfect solution to make his little brother happy.

But it just couldn't happen here.

"Yeah, Sam, that's it. We wait a while, keep tabs on them, and see what happens. I don't really see another option right now. I'm sorry."

With that, Sam finally let his protestations go, shoulders slumping as he threw in the towel on this one. "Okay. It's okay. I'll just flag the town and police reports there, maybe if there's a bar brawl or another assault we can call in a tip or something." The words left acid in his mouth.

Wait until someone else got hurt. They'd had to do it on hunts before, but this…just felt worse, knowing that it came not from the evil of beasts or demons but from ordinary people gone down the wrong paths.

"Trust me Sam, I don't like it either."

"I know." Sam rose from the bed and over to the phone. "Takeout? I'll pick you up some pie if you want."

A small smile greeted him.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so not much happening here other than some setup, I know, but the conclusion will be here, I promise. The ending might take you by surprise, but I hope you'll like it. It's mostly finished, and actually was one of the first scenes I wrote after starting this fic when I figured out how I wanted it to go. I'll try to have it up in the next few days, classes have started once again and I want to have this finished before my professors resume their usual 'let's pile on everything at once because sleep-deprived students are funny' routine. Psh, don't they know I spend my nights on fanfic anyway? :)


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Here it is. The end. Light at the end of the long dark tunnel that was my exploration into a longer fic. I finish it with mixed feelings, some happiness over having completed what I set out to do, and some sadness over having to say goodbye to something that has taken up my 3am insomnia sessions for the last few months. Ah, well, here it is, no turning back now. A million thank yous to the folks who took the time to turn to these pages and look through my scrambled words, and hugs to all who reviewed. The kind words and motivation you've given me means so much, to a girl who never thought she'd post any written work other than chemical reports and jumped into this on a wing and a prayer. It's been a huge joy to write this.

A/N 2: On that rather long and cheesy note, here we go! It's not what most people had in mind, I'm sure, but it's one of the first options I saw as the end to this fic and I just couldn't change it. I present it now to you, enjoy! *throws virtual pages forward and ducks back behind couch*

* * *

And so they let the time pass, a few more days going by effortlessly for the boys. Their routine remained the same, the younger brother keeping the watchful eye over the elder as he healed, and the elder trying as hard as he could to drive said younger brother insane.

Younger brother was an expert both at handling the attempted insanity provocations and offering his own retaliation.

"Sa-aaaaaaam. Come on, this is ridiculous."

"Nope." Sam crossed his arms and smirked at his brother. "We're not leaving until you finish your exercises."

Dean had a glare that could ignite water, but luckily for Sam, years of careful practice had rendered him immune.

"This. Is. Ridiculous. I don't need the damn exercises, I can walk on the thing just fine and it's healing just fine!"

"Yeah, and when your knee gives out at thirty you're not allowed to come crying to me. Come on, you know it won't get back to a hundred percent unless you do your P.T. So do it, and we can get the hell out of here."

"Ugh. You're not my friggen doctor, you know."

"True, but I am the stubborn brother with the keys." He wiggled them at Dean, grinning as the other Winchester lunged forward for them and unable to grasp them from the mile-high reach of Sam's arms. "Come on, Dean. You're not winning this one."

"Friggen Sasquatch. Fine, but at least go outside or take a shower or something."

Sam eyed his brother with confusion. "What, you embarrassed or something? Why?"

Dean grumbled, head down.

"Say again?"

"I feel like a ballerina. Or some yoga tai-chi weirdo. I mean, come on, how does this help?"

Sam laughed and rolled his eyes as he stood. "To gently stretch the ligaments and muscles around the knee so you don't cause more damage to it. It's not that bad, dude."

"Whatever." Dean halfheartedly threw a pillow at his brother as he began his exercises, grumbling all the while. Sam didn't leave the room, but rather took up residence at his laptop, turning away from Dean to give him a bit of privacy.

Dean didn't have to look at the computer to know what Sam was looking for. With hunts out of the question for a while and no sign of their father or the demon, they had only a few reasons to scour the internet. He was certain Sam was on the site for Roxbury's local paper, keeping an eye out for any sign of the drunken wondergang that had nearly taken out both brothers. They didn't really bring it up in casual conversation, but the topic was often on their minds, and it was in silence that they both searched for a way to pay those men back.

After a few minutes, Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair. No sign of any action in the town, which he supposed was a good thing, but made him tense just a bit more in frustration.

Another pillow greeted him, this time squarely in the face. As he blinked the sting out of his eyes that accompanied the burn in his nose, he saw his brother grinning at him. "Whoops. Hand slipped. You ready to pack up?"

* * *

They took to the road, heading further to the west just for convenience, no real destination on their minds. It was more for something to do, to keep them both from getting too restless. And they were able to resume their usual habits on the road, though Sam took the wheel for the time being. That had been a hard-won battle in itself, Dean exceedingly reluctant to give up the post until Sam had laid the ultimate puppy eyes on him and he'd folded like a dead hand in poker.

It felt right, though, having the two back on the road. Almost normal again. The blood long gone from the seats, bruises cleared from Dean's face and guilt cleansed from Sam's. Dean had a few more scars on the outside and Sam had a few on the inside, and although both still needed to heal a bit more, they were more whole than they had been for a while.

They stopped at another motel to take up residence for the next few days, in a small idyllic town—with a hospital, for sure—and enough sights to keep them both satisfied. _The Resting Ranch_. Cheesy and gawky with big puffy beds and old flashy tapestries on the walls. It was perfect for them.

* * *

"Hey, Dean, you're never gonna believe this. Those guys from Roxbury?"

"Yeah?" Reclining on the bed, scanning through his father's journal, he looked up at Sam, who had his eyes glued to an article on his laptop.

"This is…this is crazy."

"You gonna make me drag my ass outta this bed? What is it?"

"Well…just, wow. It looks like we don't have to worry about them, someone's got us covered. Beat the living hell out of 'em, all eight guys in the hospital. Cops are on standby to lock them up when they get checked out, I guess they're getting booked for a bunch of other assaults."

"You gotta be kidding me. This is a sick joke on your part, right? Trying to work on that sense of humor?"

"I swear. Take a look." Sam swiveled the laptop to show Dean the article, and there it was, clear as day, in Roxbury's main newspaper. Complete with a comment by the bartender of the bar they had been at expressing his relief at having that gang out of his place for a while. After word had spread about the men landing in the hospital, several people had come forward with accusations against them for past assaults and a few muggings. The evidence against them was more than enough.

"Well, I'll be damned." His shocked expression matched Sam's. "Looks like someone beat us to the punch, literally."

"Hah, yup."

"You mad we didn't get our two cents in?"

"Are you kidding me?" Sam's face was priceless, a crooked smile on his lips as his eyes stayed locked in half disbelief and half relief. "You realize we just got a golden egg handed to us? I'll take it."

"Whoa, Sammy endorsing violence towards people? I'm surprised at you."

"Scumbags don't really count as people, so we're good."

Sam slumped back down in the chair, still staring in shock at the article, barely noticing as Dean's phone beeped for a text message. "This is crazy, right? That's just—I mean our luck sucks. How the heck could something like this go down?"

"Couldn't tell ya, Sammy."

At that Sam turned in his seat, eyes fixed on his brother. "You don't think…"

Dean just raised his eyebrows, though no surprise was revealed in his features this time.

"I mean, he didn't even know, I mean, he hasn't contacted us or—I mean—d'you think?"

"You've got a way with words, you know that?"

"I'm serious, man, do you think he did?"

Dean leaned forward with a knowing smile and held out his hand, gripped around the phone that contained a single text message from an unknown number.

_Be safe, boys._

End.


	31. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

A/N: Okay, I lied a little. Not the end. This part's the end though, for sure. The bar scene coming up was actually one of the first I had written as a conclusion to this fic. A little random, I know, but come on, this is the all-knowing John Winchester. And I am a firm believer in the principle that he does not let anyone screw with his kids. And since the boys weren't likely to take anyone on in the immediate future, some almighty force had to intervene. So, cue John Winchester style ass-kicking.

* * *

He kept an eye on them after they parted ways. It can't be expected for a father to just abandon his sons completely, and he had never done that. Whether it was surreptitiously checking up on one at school or sending a few hints here and there to the other on solo hunts, he tried to remain just out of eyeshot but close enough.

They were his boys, after all.

So the cards were privately flagged and the word was set out quietly to other hunters, and he watched for a bit. Always keeping up with his own investigation, but stopping every once in a while to just breathe in the memory of his kids.

And then the premium credit card and top class insurance came up at a hospital in the Midwest, and the father dropped everything and sped to it as fast as his truck would take him.

* * *

It had to be his oldest. It was always his oldest, always the one trying so hard to save the world and everyone in it. So much on his shoulders and always with a smile on his face, ready to jump into the fire whether it was to save his family or the next Joe off the street. Made him so damn proud and so damn terrified at the same time.

He couldn't go in. His youngest never left, of that he was sure. Kid never did like seeing his brother hurt, and made damn sure to always be around for him. No, it wasn't safe to go in, not for him or the boys.

But he kept tabs, sweet talked to doctors and nurses to get the status updates on both boys. One in particular kept him the most informed, a nurse, who saw to it that the boys would be alright. She cared for them, both of them, and for that he was eternally grateful.

It killed him knowing how much his sons were hurting. Knowing they were so close to him, but he couldn't, couldn't just go up and hug them and hold them and rock them to sleep until the monsters went away like he wanted to.

Monsters.

Nothing that he could do directly for his boys, he turned his attention to the monsters that had caused this, the ones so careless as to sink their teeth into his son, his family.

It didn't take him long to figure it out. _Humans_. Figured it would be ordinary people capable of such acts of evil. It disgusted him more than the supernatural ones he had cut down in his years. People as monsters. He'd never understand it, not if he managed to live a thousand years and a hundred lives.

So he watched, kept close eyes on his boys, on his family, watched them crack and break and, amazingly, heal themselves and move on together.

_You'd be proud of them, honey. I know you can't approve of so much that I've done, but be proud of that. Be proud of your boys._

And he watched, just out of eyeshot as they took off to another nameless town in another nameless part of the world. His boys, picking up the pieces to glue them back together and moving on.

He kept guard a little while longer, to see that they were indeed alright, and then turned his sights back to the monsters. He had his mission, and it was one he would enjoy.

He would make sure his timing was perfect.

* * *

The bar is smoky, filled with good humor and rowdy music and lots of beer. A few poker games take up the back, pool and darts towards the front. The scene would be a fun one if not for that posse that head in every few weeks. They're a black spot on the place, always looking to screw over some newcomer or take someone out back for a brawl. The bartenders would kick them out, but they're smart; they never break any rules while they're actually _in_ the building. They're here tonight, too, loud and obnoxious as all hell, spilling their drinks and hitting on the waitresses a little too much.

There's a man, up on a stool, who's keeping to himself, nursing a beer with his eyes down. He's got an old leather jacket on, worn down from years of living. He's comfortable in this kind of place, even with the loud crowd next to him. They carry on with their night, pushing and shoving at each other and getting ready to set up a game of pool for the next poor bastard who heads in and looks at them funny.

They don't know they're being watched, that their conversations are being overheard. That man, up on the stool, he's got pretty good hearing for his age.

They start to prattle on about an incident a few weeks ago. A proud moment for them, apparently, a time of triumph. Getting back what was theirs, enjoying the sport of it.

Beating the sap out of some poor kid who couldn't do much more than duck his head.

"Eight on one, huh. Doesn't exactly sound like a fair fight, does it." The voice comes calmly, not shouted, but loud enough to reach the ears it is intended for.

The men sneer, unused to being chastised. "Hey, the little brat got what was comin' to him. Screwin' us over like that. Cheatin' kid got away with more'n half a grand, but I think we got back enough in return." They share a laugh, drunk off of cheap beer and cocky attitudes.

They don't realize what they've set off in this man.

They don't realize it when they slap a few dollars down on the bar and one gives a corresponding slap to a waitresses' behind, ignoring her squeal of protest. They don't realize it they start their game of pool, no one wanting to push them with a game so they play each other for laughs.

They don't realize it when the man steps off the stool and towards the pool table, offering a game for them. They see he's older and think it's an easy mark, so one sets up while the others watch, drunken grins on their faces.

They don't realize it when he wins five games in a row, though the smiles have slid off their faces at this point. He takes the money with a nod and a tight jaw, leaving the bar as they seethe after him. With a quick turn of his head he says, in that same calm tone, "Maybe you should pay a bit more attention to who you're going up against."

He heads to the back alley. He knows what to expect, and he's ready for it. But they don't know.

They don't realize it as they stumble out the back to follow him, eyes darkened with anger and fists rearing to go.

No, it's only after they've surrounded him in a half circle as he backs towards a wall, jeering and insulting and spitting at his feet and just waiting for him to drop his shoulder so they can tear into him, only after they see him raise his head and look into his eyes.

Only then to they realize what an enormous mistake they've made.

Five minutes later, all eight men lie in a heap in the back alley, bloodied and bruised. He was ruthless, punch after punch fired in rapid succession, fury-filled blows rained down on them as they swung out wildly and tried to regroup and failed. It was a massacre, but not the one they had been expecting. One man on eight, and he had taken them down with barely a blink of his eye.

A few of them are still a little bit conscious, so he leans forward to the jackass who tried to gut him with his little pig sticker, and pulls his face up. One eye's swollen shut but the other one can see just fine, and the man's blood runs cold as he looks into the eyes of the man who managed to take them all out with barely a scratch on him.

"I want you to listen, very carefully. I know the stunts you pull on the people who come into this place. If I catch wind that you or any of your buddies are pulling crap like this again, I'll be back. And trust me, a busted rib and a black eye will be the least of your worries."

He abruptly releases the guy's jaw and takes a step back. He adjusts his jacket and wipes the blood off his split lip.

"Wh-what the hell?" the man manages to sputter out through broken teeth.

"You should pay a little more attention to the kids you mark for a beating. Particularly when they're mine."

With that he turns to leave, not a glance back at them. He rubs his fingers over his knuckles, feeling the split skin there, but it was more than worth it.

No one screws with John Winchester's boys, after all.


End file.
